How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(40)

Charlie chuckles. ‘What did you think of Bridget?’ he asks.

‘Sorry. Who?’

He throws his head back laughing. After a moment he looks at me.

‘I wanted tonight to be special,’ he says, bringing his finger up and gently stroking my cheek.

‘It was certainly a night I won’t be forgetting in a hurry.’

He groans again, dropping his head in faux shame. ‘So how can I make it up to you?’ There’s an unmistakable glint in his eyes.

‘I can think of a few ways.’





32


KITTY’S APARTMENT, CHELSEA

We arrive back at my building and I instantly feel the energy between us charge with sexual tension. We stand closer than necessary in the lift and I feel my heart galloping with that delicious anticipation as our bodies graze each other, our skin crackling whenever they touch.

As we walk into my apartment, I feel Charlie’s hand on the small of my back and almost growl with desire.

‘Nice digs,’ he says, looking around.

‘Yeah. It was a guilt gift from my mother before she fled to the South of France.’

‘I mean, as guilt gifts go, it’s pretty decent.’

‘Hmm. Well, it’s all relative, isn’t it?’

‘Are you close though?’

‘No, not really. We speak at Christmas and birthdays, but I think she just wants to forget all the London stuff. She didn’t have the greatest of times, even before Dad buggered off. The press were pretty hard on her.’

‘Yeah, I have a vague-ish memory that they didn’t like how quickly she moved on or something?’ He runs his fingers over the dark blue panelled walls, with a look I can’t work out.

‘There were loads of rumours that she’d been having an affair and that Dad had a breakdown before …’ I trail off. Charlie walks over to me, purposefully. He presses a firm finger to my lips, a gesture that would usually make me angry. There’s a crackle of static again as his skin makes contact with mine.

‘Let’s not talk about the past.’

I nod.

The less said the better.

A beat passes. We don’t break eye contact. My breaths are fast and shallow. That’s when he kisses me for the first time. And I kiss him back, enjoying the feel of a warm body pressed up against mine, a body pulsing, overflowing with goodness and life, and I let myself melt into him. My hands in his hair, his thigh between my legs.

I want you.

When we finally break apart, Charlie puts his hands either side of my face and cocks his head at me.

‘Anyway. Now that’s out the way, I wondered if now is a good time to ask about posting some of the refugee art up on your Insta page?’ He smiles and kisses me in between my eyebrows. ‘Kidding. Right, am I making coffee?’

What? He actually wants coffee?

He follows me into the kitchen, where he looks around in confusion at the menagerie of gadgets that have been sent to me so I can lie about them on Instagram.

‘Do you even know which one of these makes coffee?’

‘Full disclosure?’ I say. ‘Not a clue. I usually order my drinks in. And yes, I’m fully aware of how spoiled I sound.’

He laughs. ‘Well, what are men for if it’s not fiddling around with gadgets and tech?’

He does that knuckle-crack thing which is the universal sign that he means business and then busies himself opening cupboards and adding water and sliding little pod-things into hidden drawers on one of the kitchen-contraption things.

While it gurgles and steams at an alarming volume, Charlie checks out the rest of the stuff. ‘You’ve got quite an armoury for someone who doesn’t eat meat,’ he says, picking up a meat cleaver and turning it over in his hands.

‘Ever tried to open a coconut with a spoon?’

He laughs. ‘That is something I have never considered. Although I did do it once with an ancient samurai sword in Thailand.’

‘Sure, Jan.’

‘I did! I swear.’

When our coffees are poured, we move into the living area. Charlie perches on the edge of one of the sofas.

His manners make me smile.

‘You’re allowed to make yourself comfortable, I won’t tell you off.’

He immediately looks relieved and sinks back into the expensive comfort of the cushions.

‘Old habits really do die hard,’ he says, taking a sip of his drink. ‘Furniture was to be admired, not used when I was a kid.’

‘Well, you’re all grown up now,’ I say, sitting at the other end of the two-seater – Lola, Darlings of Chelsea, in Blue Lagoon – tucking my feet under me. ‘And my furniture is all definitely here to be used.’ I lean over and put my mug down on the coffee table. He does the same. Mirroring. It’s a flirting thing.

I feel that jolt of pleasure again.

He likes me.

‘So. Is this furniture being used by anyone else at the moment?’ he asks.

‘Just you and me.’

’No other men in your life?’

I think about Tinder. The bodies. The crunch of metal against bone as they go through the grinders. ‘No other men.’

He’s staring at me again, his pupils black and ravenous. He leans forward and his lips are on mine again. His kiss is deeper this time, one hand cradling my face, the other gently pushing the small of my back into him.