Sins (46 page)

Embarrassingly, at one point she had asked Ella if she was sleeping with Oliver. After Ella had shaken her head and said tersely that their relationship was very much a professional one, Maisie had pursed her lips and given Oliver a sidelong look.

‘Professional, is it?’ she said to Ella. ‘In my day there was only one kind of professional activity a girl would have wanted to share with a good-looking man like him.’

To Ella’s surprise, Oliver had come to her rescue, telling Maisie, ‘She’s already got some handsome New Yorker chasing after her.’

Of course, Maisie had wanted to know who the handsome New Yorker was, and Ella had inwardly cursed Oliver for somehow or other knowing about Brad.

‘He’s another journalist,’ was all she allowed herself to say.

Now Ella and Oliver were standing back outside in the baking heat of the late afternoon. It was five o’clock, and even the trees in Central Park looked heat weary, their leaves drooping, as she too drooped, unaware that Oliver was studying her.

She had a very different body from the models he
photographed, Oliver recognised, much curvier, with full breasts and a narrow waist rather than the more androgynous look that was currently so fashionable; a woman now, not the soft-fleshed young girl she’d been when he’d first seen her, nor the too-thin hyped-up person she’d become when she’d been taking those wretched diet pills. She looked far better than when he had last seen her–far, far better, he acknowledged. Her hair was tied up, restrained in a sleek chignon, her blouse and skirt combination as crisp-looking as it had been when they had left the
Vogue
office earlier, except for the fact that he could see a small bead of sweat lying in the hollow at the base of her throat, trembling as it prepared to roll down between her breasts. What would she do if he reached out and captured it, licking it off his fingertip like a boy licking an ice cream? He was tempted to try it just to find out.

Maisie’s comment and Ella’s response, confirming the existence of her New Yorker boyfriend, had brought out his hunting instinct. Oliver never had been able to resist seducing a woman away from another man–just as his father had seduced his mother away from her husband? He gave a dismissive mental shrug. So what if he had? She’d obviously been willing, and he was obviously his true father’s son.

The hot breeze did nothing to cool the air. Oliver could see the Pierre up ahead of them.

‘Fancy a drink?’ His invitation surprised him just as much as it did Ella, who was looking at him with that haughty expression of hers.

Ella was just about to refuse–after all, neither another
drink nor Oliver’s company held any appeal for her whatsoever–but when she opened her mouth to do so, a light came on inside her head. The key to unlocking her self-made prison and being Brad’s lover was standing in front of her. That knowledge made her feel dizzy and shaky, as though she’d suddenly stepped from dry land onto somewhere far more unsteady–unsteady, but also unexpectedly exhilarating.

Her agreement wasn’t the response Oliver had expected. He nodded, not sure why he had asked her in the first place, but aware that he had assumed she would refuse, and that that would have given him the opportunity to bait her and see how she reacted.

She had no idea why she hadn’t thought of this solution before, Ella acknowledged, sitting in the bar of the Pierre Hotel minutes later whilst she drank her second Martini. She’d drunk her first quickly, like someone taking medicine, which in a sense was exactly what she had been doing, using the alcohol to create a comforting barrier between her and the reality of what she was planning to do.

Oliver had slept with dozens of girls, everyone knew that. All she had to do was let him do whatever it was he did to make him so popular with her sex, and that way rid herself of not just her virginity but, just as importantly, her lack of experience. Somehow it didn’t matter at all that Oliver would know about her inexperience, but then she had no wish to impress him, had she?

Things weren’t going quite as she’d expected, though, she admitted, sitting on the plush velour banquette whilst
Oliver sat opposite her, the table between them. She was on her third Martini now, and beginning to feel a bit desperate. Everyone knew that Oliver pounced on all his models; she may not be a model but, without being vain, she knew that she was reasonably attractive now, even if she hadn’t been when Oliver had known her in London–and Venice, where he
had
kissed her. So far, though, Oliver hadn’t made any move on her at all. Was it because of something that she wasn’t doing? If so, what? She looked around for inspiration.

A couple came in, the man leading the woman over to the banquette. Once she was seated, she patted the space next to herself invitingly, encouraging the man to sit next to her.

Of course!

Ella turned to Oliver, suddenly frozen.

She had to. It was now or never. Just think about what’s at stake, she urged herself. You want to be with Brad, don’t you? You’re already in love with him, and he wants you–or rather, he wants the woman he thinks you are, the woman you’re never going to be if you lose your nerve now.

She tried to smile and wondered if the result looked as forced and unnatural as it felt. She had to clear her throat before she could speak, her voice sounding stiff to her own ears as she asked Oliver, ‘Why don’t you sit here next to me?’

Oliver almost spilled his drink. Ella, the ice queen, was coming on to him? Impossible. He must be imagining it.

He looked at her. No, he wasn’t imagining it. He wasn’t that desperate for a shag either, he told himself. Mind,
by the looks of them she had got good tits. And besides, what else was he going to do with his evening?

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he told her, inching his chair closer to her, on familiar territory now. ‘Why don’t you finish your drink and then we’ll go back to my place?’

Relief and panic surged through her in dizzying spurts. She felt distinctly wobbly but at the same time triumphant.

Oliver’s apartment was on the Upper East Side, the smart side of the park, their cab depositing them outside it with what felt like breathtaking speed. During the ride Ella had sat with her back ramrod straight, staring ahead, whilst Oliver had lounged easily at her side, playing with her fingers and humming under his breath. She had looked at him–once–only to look quickly away again when she’d realised that his lounging position had dragged the fabric of his jeans tightly across his groin, rather explicitly revealing what their journey was all about.

That was enough to have her heart hammering and make her mouth go dry.

A uniformed concierge opened the outer door to the apartment building for them. This was the more the kind of place she had imagined Brad living in than Oliver, with his carefully scruffy appearance and his overlong hair. It was certainly far smarter and more expensive than her brownstone apartment, she thought, as Oliver ushered her into the elevator, and pressed the button.

‘Alone at last,’ he told her with a mock leer.

What on earth was she supposed to do? How did other
women behave when they were in this situation with a man like Oliver? Presumably they were highly delighted, whilst all she felt was highly apprehensive. The lift started to move, jolting her off balance, so that she fell against Oliver, who immediately caught her in his arms.

She had been here before and, extraordinarily, her body seemed to know it, her senses reading and recognising him.

How disturbing to think that for all these years her own flesh had stored a memory of a mere handful of seconds in his arms.

‘That’s how I like my women,’ Oliver teased her, ‘throwing themselves at me.’

Arrogant pig. Just in time she bit back the retort.

He kept his arm around her as he guided her down the corridor to his apartment, massaging the back of her neck with his free hand as he unlocked the door.

‘Want a drink?’ he asked.

Ella was about to shake her head, but then nodded instead. Dutch courage? Well, why not? She was going to need it.

‘G & T?’

Ella nodded again.

The apartment had an enormous living room with an off-white deep-pile carpet and a huge black leather sofa. A long rosewood sideboard sat against the wall opposite the fireplace, whilst the fireplace wall itself was painted a deep purple. Several paintings hung on the walls, all of them female nudes, as was the bronze on the coffee table.

It was very much a man’s room, sexual and somehow predatory, just like the Rolling Stones music Oliver had
put on. Since there was nowhere else to sit Ella had sat on the sofa, feeling the cool slipperiness of the leather heat up under her bare legs, so that she was sticking to it as she clung to one corner of the sofa. Her hand shook slightly when she took the gin and tonic Oliver brought her. She took a sip and then gasped. It was strong, much stronger than she was used to.

‘Good?’ he asked her suggestively as she took another gulp of her drink.

He was sitting down beside her, resting his arm behind her. She was trembling even more. Hastily she put her drink down on the coffee table before she spilled it. As she straightened up Oliver drew her into his arms.

It felt rather disturbing, not because she felt uncomfortable there but because it was much too pleasant.

Ella allowed herself to relax slightly.

‘So,’ Oliver asked with a grin, ‘when did you first start fancying me?’

Ella was outraged, her outrage turning to apprehension when Oliver traced with his fingertip the bare flesh just inside the open but modest V neck of her blouse, and then leaned forward to kiss her.

His mouth felt warm and firm, knowledgeable. He kissed well, Ella was forced to acknowledge as he teased her lips with small kisses, using the pressure of his tongue tip to coax them apart but not then sticking his tongue down her throat, as she had dreaded he might. She had other things to worry about than his tongue, though. He might have one hand in her hair, removing its pins, but the other one was deftly flicking open the tiny buttons of her blouse.

She had wanted this, Ella reminded herself, and for a very good reason. Brad.

‘Great tits,’ Oliver whispered against her mouth. ‘Shame to keep them in captivity, though.’

Somehow her shirt was half off and he was unfastening her bra.

Ella sucked in her breath. Pretty little beesting, barely there breasts were the fashion, with many women going braless, but Ella was a 34D, her breasts firm and rounded.

Oliver was thoroughly absorbed in the discovery of just how sexy two handsful of soft dark-nippled breasts actually were, and was enjoying himself too much to notice Ella’s tension.

‘There are tits and there are tits,’ he breathed ecstatic-ally, ‘and these are…these are making me feel soo horny.’ He lowered his head and started playing with her nipples with his tongue and then his teeth.

Wild fires shocked through Ella’s body. Brad had caressed her breasts, discreetly and over her clothes, in the backs of cabs when he had been kissing her. His touch had made her ache and feel eager for more, but it hadn’t prepared her for the clamouring that now had her back arching and her breath escaping in what sounded like a high moan of arousal.

Had he really called her an ice maiden? Man, had he been wrong, Oliver acknowledged, as he reached for the zip on Ella’s skirt.

This was it, she thought. Soon it was going to happen.

‘Come on.’ Oliver got to his feet and took hold of her hand.

Uncertainly Ella looked at him.

‘We can’t fuck in here,’ Oliver told her. ‘One of us will end up stuck to the ruddy leather, and besides, the bed’s much more comfortable.’

The bedroom was as masculine as the living room, with a huge bed with black silk sheets, which made Ella want to laugh hysterically.

‘Can’t say they’re my cup of tea either,’ Oliver acknowledged, ‘but there you go.’

He was removing his shirt as he spoke and then reached for the belt of his jeans. His white T-shirt stretched tightly over his chest, revealing his toned body as he tugged it off. Ella’s stomach muscles clenched as he dropped his jeans and his underwear and then stepped out of them.

Ella’s breath caught and locked in her throat. His erection reared up firmly and eagerly from its bed of thick dark hair. Some of it was going to be inside her, and then…

But what was
she
supposed to be doing? Surely not just standing here staring at him, feeling awkward and uncertain, and clutching her blouse around herself whilst her skirt half hung off? Somehow she couldn’t see Brad being impressed by that.

Quickly she removed her blouse, her bra coming off with it, and then her skirt.

Oliver’s eyes widened slightly.

She was keen. Normally girls waited for him to undress them. He liked it, though, that she was so eager. He reached for her, pulling her tight against his body, his cock rubbing against her bare flesh as he kissed her, holding her head steady as he did so.

Soon they were on the bed, getting there via more kisses, and Oliver’s hand sliding between her legs, he approving that she was very wet.

It was surprising to discover how disappointed she felt when Oliver stopped playing with her nipples, and how intense the urgent aching and pulsing inside her grew when Oliver touched her there.

She tried experimenting a bit by touching him, stroking her hands over his shoulders and his upper arms, even kissing his throat, as well as grappling with the rigid phallus, of which he was so proud. That had been a slightly unnerving experience, especially when Oliver had thrown back his head and groaned. But now he was positioning himself between her legs. Once she was no longer a virgin then she could get down to the business of becoming an experienced and a good lover, Ella comforted herself.

‘God, I love these,’ Oliver announced, fondling Ella’s breasts and then kissing her firmly as he thrust into her, and then stopped when she tensed and he felt the unexpected barrier of her tight muscles. ‘What the hell…?’

Oliver had gone still and was looking at her with disbelief.

‘You’re a virgin.’