Indigo Nights (Nights #3)(3)

I pulled out my notebook, tucked my legs up under my skirt and started to scribble. Just a few seconds later, I sensed someone approach my section. Damn, I’d wanted this corner to myself. Head down, I watched the empty chair at my table as it was pulled out and someone put their bag on it. Wanting to know who was planning to sit with me when there were two other tables free, I snapped my head up and came face-to-face with Mr. 8A.

My heart started to thunder in the same way it had when I came across alcohol when I was first sober; it was warning me about temptation.

“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?” His voice was deep, gravelly. I’d not heard him speak on the plane.

I glanced across at the free tables. “No, please. Go ahead.” I couldn’t refuse, but why the hell did he want to share my table?

He pulled out his laptop and set it next to his phone along with a small black Moleskine.

I pretended to be engrossed in my notes, but all I could think about was him. All I could do was concentrate on not staring. I caught his scent: earthy and dark, expensive and sexual. Everything about him was magnetic. Hands unsteady, I gripped tighter onto my notebook.

A waitress approached, her eyes glued to my tablemate.

“Can I get you two anything?”

Did she think we were together, married? A grin started at the edges of my mouth. “I’ll have a virgin mojito, and do you have any cake?”

Cake would stop my hands from shaking. Cake was now, as it had started then, a tonic for all that was wrong.

“We may have some. I’ll have to check,” the waitress replied.

“Thank you. Whatever you have.” I smiled at her.

“And you, sir?” Mr. 8A’s focus hadn’t left his laptop. He glanced up, then back to his screen. “A soda water with a twist of freshly cut lime. Please.” He didn’t wait for a reaction before he recommenced typing.

“Yes, sir. Anything to eat?”

“No.” His voice was firm. “Thank you,” he said, almost as an afterthought. She scurried off with our order. Mr. 8A continued to divide his attention between his laptop, which got the majority of his time, and his phone and notebook.

Knowing he was doing anything but taking notice of me, I took the opportunity to do some more of the staring I’d started earlier. I guessed him to be six foot two or three—almost a foot taller than me. His hands were large, but moved quickly and precisely over the keyboard. His expression hadn’t changed since the plane. He was definitely stern.

He took a deep breath and glanced up at me, catching me staring again. He held my gaze, and again I couldn’t look away.

His phone vibrated on the table.

“Yes,” he answered, but continued to return my stare.

His eyes were blue but an unusual shade.

Indigo.

I almost said it out loud.

Why couldn’t I look away?

He held one finger up as if excusing himself and asking me to wait, then got up and wandered toward the showers to continue his call. Did he mean to ask me something when he returned? He’d gestured as if we’d been interrupted in the middle of something. He hadn’t spoken to me since asking if the seat was taken, but perhaps he’d been about to? I realized I wanted him to ask me a question. I wanted to hear his deep, gravelly voice. I wanted to tell him something about me. A secret.

I craved intimacy with him.

But that’s not who I was. I didn’t give in to temptation anymore. I needed to shut him down. I needed to concentrate on my cake.



Dylan

She was delicious. Unusual. She looked like a fifties movie star: Vivian Leigh or a young Elizabeth Taylor. My cock had begun to twitch when she’d looked at me on the plane. And I could tell she’d been checking me out while I was working. I was used to it, and I quite enjoyed that she was taking her time, lingering over every detail of my physical form.

And when she hadn’t looked away when I caught her? I loved that. She’d done it on the plane, too. It was intriguing, challenging. And I was up for it.

I needed a new f*ck, and she’d do nicely.

Her tits were real, which was a plus. I was a connoisseur and could tell the real from the fake at a hundred paces. I’d choose real every time, but wouldn’t rule a woman out for having a little help. And she’d ordered cake, which caught my attention. Most women I came across didn’t eat. That was cute.

“That sounds fine, Raf. I’m in London for the week, so as long as I have it before I leave, it’s fine.”

I ended the call with my business partner and strode back. Luckily my meeting for the next day had been moved back, so if we didn’t take off today it wouldn’t be the end of the world. In fact, given the company at my table, I’d say it might be just perfect.

I understood the dynamic between men and women. I got to sleep with hot women, and in exchange they got to f*ck a rich guy in the hope that they’d become beneficiaries of my cash. I might be handsome, but I knew from bitter experience that if a richer guy came along, I’d be left in the taillights of the women I slept with. It just happened that now, there weren’t many richer men, which gave me a certain satisfaction. I’d made peace with the transactional nature of relationships between men and women and had no expectations. At some point in my past I’d thought that love was possible. Not anymore. It was all about giving to get.