Mr Spencer(44)

“Shut up and fucking do it.”

“Is that filthy mouth of yours always so bossy?”

“Angel, you have no idea.”

I smile and I dust my fingers down over my stomach.

“Tell me what you feel?” he asks.

Oh God…

“My skin.”

“Is it soft?”

“Yes.”

“Lower.” He exhales.

I drop my fingers between my open legs.

“Circle your four fingertips over your clitoris.”

I shudder, because just hearing him say that heats my blood. No man has ever spoken to me like this. I do as he asks, and I close my eyes to let the pleasure take over.

“Imagine it’s me who’s doing it. My open lips are on your neck.”

My head falls back.

“Talk to me,” he whispers through ragged breaths. “I want to hear your voice when you’re aroused.”

My fingers get to work, and I moan softly, my legs parting wider, seeking his invisible touch.

“Hmm, fuck yeah.” He hisses.

I smile at the arousal in his voice.

“Are you going to come for me, angel? Because I’ve been coming for you for two weeks.”

“Hmm.” I smile, my eyes still closed.

“I’ve had to imagine I was with you during sex or I couldn’t come.”

What?

My eyes snap open. “You imagined you were having sex with me when you were inside another woman?” I snap.

“Oh… shit… I mean...”

“You’ve had sex with someone else since we met?”

“Ah…” He hesitates as he tries to get himself out of this. “So… so did you, Charlotte,” he stammers. “Did you imagine it was me?”

My blood begins to boil. “No, Spencer. I did not.”

“You should have. I’m way better in bed than him.”

I get out of the bath in an instant. The water sloshes all over the floor. “No, what you are is an idiot!” I snap.

“I know. Wait. What are you doing?”

“Ending this call.”

“Don’t hang up on me,” he pleads.

“Go and do what you’ve been doing with the others.”

“What do you mean?”

“Imagining having sex with me is as close as you’re ever going to get. You big, stupid jerk.”

I hang up, wrap myself in a towel, and then I storm out of the bathroom.

The man is a first-class idiot.





*



I watch my phone dance across my side table while I lie in bed.

It’s late on Thursday night now, and Spencer has been calling me non-stop since our disastrous call on Tuesday.

I don’t want to answer. I mean, what is there to say?

While I’ve been pining over here for him, he’s been out screwing around, imagining my face when he was with someone else.

I’m shocked and appalled, but if I’m being totally honest, a little relieved that he had to imagine me to climax. That’s God punishing him for being such an asshole.

And why does he have to be so damn honest all the time?

It’s infuriating.

Beth thinks I should speak to him, and that in his eyes, I have double standards because he thinks I slept with someone else, too. She thinks I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe I am.

But maybe I’m just not cut out for casual dating, and this was just the gentle reminder I needed. He had me naked in the bath touching myself, for Christ’s sake. Talk about being putty in his hands.

The phone stops vibrating, and I stare at the ceiling, a sad, dejected feeling sweeping through me. I feel like I’m back to square one with him—below square one, because now I know he’s having sex with other women.

Maybe I should have answered his call and had it out with him. Perhaps it would make me feel better?

I exhale heavily and pick up my phone to start scrolling through Instagram when the phone starts to vibrate in my hand again.

I stare at it for a moment.

Screw it. “Hi,” I answer.

“Are you fucking serious?” he snaps.

I stay silent, unsure what to say.

“Okay, firstly… don’t you dare hang up on me.”

I roll my eyes.

“Secondly, yes, I am well aware that telling you I imagined you during sex was probably the stupidest thing to ever come out of my mouth.”

“Who was she?”

He hesitates.

“I want to know who she was.”

“Her name is Sheridan, and she’s an old friend. She lives in America.”

I get a vision of a beautiful woman with my Spencer, and jealousy twists in my stomach.

“You know her well?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I don’t know if I want to know the answer to this question, but I ask anyway. “How long have you been sleeping with her?”

“Do we have to talk about this?” he asks.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you want me to listen to what you have to say.”

“Ten years.”

My eyes widen and my stomach drops.

“It’s never happened before,” he says softly.