Page 21 of A Dark Fall
As we’re saying our goodbyes, Dad pulls me close, leaning in to whisper, “You’re doing fine, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you, you know?” His voice is quiet and warm.
I pull back to smile lovingly at him, the depth of his words almost bringing tears to my eyes. My dad is my rock, somehow always knowing exactly the right thing to say at exactly the right time, no matter the circumstance. His reassuring bedside manner has always translated so well to parenting.
At the car, Nick hugs me, telling me to come to him for dinner soon, which makes me laugh out loud. He has never cooked more than toast in his life, I’m certain of it. He corrects himself quickly, offering to take me out for dinner instead.
I stifle a yawn as I flash the lights of my Mini at my brother’s Lexus to say goodbye before turning in the opposite direction.
The moment I’m tucked up in bed, I think about Jake again. With a sigh of resignation, I reach into the drawer of my nightstand and take out the gold-and-purple toy, looking at it rather hopelessly.
“Jake bloody Lawrence ...” I sigh as I lower my hand beneath the quilt.
The music vibrates through my entire body, each pound of the bass matching the beat of my heart as I make my way through the heaving mass of dancers. When the crowd parts slightly, I see him, his eyes trained on me with lust and desire. So fierce it makes my insides tighten, warmth pooling between my legs. Slowly, he walks toward me, the crowd parting for him easily. The dark T-shirt he wears shows off his tattooed arms and hard chest, making him look fierce and dangerous and beautiful.
He comes to a stop in front of me, so close I have to tilt my head up to meet his eye. His hand comes up to graze my cheek, the seam of my jaw, his fingers tracing my lips before he slides his hand around the back of my neck to pull me into him. As our bodies collide, he kisses me slowly, hungrily, forcing my mouth to submit to his.
Gradually, the people fall away, only the music remains, and I feel something solid at my back. He pushes his hips into me, moving them obscenely as he moans fiery breaths against my lips. His arm wrapped around me feels strong and possessive, and I’m totally at his mercy. Pliable to his will.
His mouth kisses a wet trail across my cheek to my neck below my ear, sending a delicious shiver up my spine. I hear his voice then, low but forceful, a half-uttered growl: “Fucking hell, Alex, I want to fuck you right here. Feel myself inside you. Feel you come for me ...”
I grip his shirt tight as he slides his hand up my thighs, parting them. When his fingers stroke at the dampness between my legs, he moans a rough sound against my ear. Unable to contain it, I move against his hand, against his hot, needy fingers that circle torturously.
“I want it too ...” I hear myself whisper against him, desperate. “Fuck me ... please ...” I hardly recognize my voice as I reach for his belt, for the buckle, pulling at it.
The music changes pace then, speeding up as my need for him increases. He’s hard, steellike, and hot, and the instant I have him free, I pull him toward my entrance. His breathing is hard and loud against my ear as the music gets higher-pitched, more urgent—distractingly so. It sounds familiar somehow, more of a screeching than a dance beat now. It’s awful. I hate it. I’ve never hated a noise so much; never needed anything as much as I need to feel him push into me. The moment I feel his cock push against my entrance, weeping wet and hot and hard, my eyes blink open.
His weight disappears immediately, and I awaken in my bed with my alarm screaming in my ear and the sunlight blinding my eyes. I feel groggy and sleepy, but worse than that, I feel insanely turned on and damp between the thighs.
Perfect. Bloody fabulous.
With a groan that’s more of a whine, I lie back down and beg sleep to take me back so I can return to there and finish. Return to where he’s touching and kissing me, and where it’s okay that he is. When I close my eyes, I swear I can still feel and taste him, and it’s enough to make me slide my hand between my legs and into my knickers.
I stop after a few seconds because it’s not the same. It’s not him.
I groan and kick out my legs, which wakes up Fred, who stands and stretches before immediately mewling at me for his breakfast.
Monday is my on-call day, and on every drive to every appointment—and sometimes during every appointment—I think about the sex dream.
I’m always thankful for sex dreams when they happen. I have them frequently, and they’re almost always vivid and memorable for hours after I wake up. And since it’s the only sex I’m having right now, I’ll take what I can get.
They don’t normally happen with people I’ve had close calls with in real life. I have sex dreams about random strangers I saw on the train, or actors I didn’t realize I found attractive. Sex dreams about dangerous men who want to chase me and fuck me are another thing altogether. Though, perhaps sex dreams are the only realistic option with Jake Lawrence. Sex dreams are manageable and safe. Something real-life Jake isn’t.
In the end, I decide that although I’m thankful for the sex dream about Jake, I’m not thankful that my stupid alarm woke me up before I got to feel dream-Jake inside me.
My first visit of the morning is Mrs. Matthews, who lives closest to the surgery but has been bedbound for the past few months after a nasty fall. She also suffers from Alzheimer’s, so on some days when I visit her, we don’t talk about how she’s feeling at all and talk instead about the weather and the large oak tree at the foot of her garden and whether she should have it preened.
Lucy Dawkins, who I visit after Mrs. Matthews, is a thirty-two-year-old expectant first-time mother who looks after an elderly father-in-law at home. We get on well, and after her checkup, she makes me a nice cup of Earl Grey, and I spend too long chatting with her about how we don’t get out much anymore since we became old and boring. Lucy seems totally content and excited about her upcoming arrival, and it makes someplace deep inside me flare with something like envy and regret. Not regret that I didn’t marry Ben and have his children; regret over spending eight years with the cheating, arrogant prick. Years I could have spent with someone else. Lucy knows I’m single with a cat, and so, to be nice, she offers to set me up with her thirty-four-year-old also single brother-in-law. I politely decline.
The next couple of appointments drag, and Mr. Harris, my twelve o’clock, doesn’t even answer when I arrive. I make a call to his next of kin who apologizes and tells me he’s visiting family in Bath this week and must have forgotten to cancel his monthly appointment. It’s actually a minor triumph because it gives me an extra-long lunch.
I’m reading the paper in my favorite deli and sipping my cappuccino when I see a feature on the opening of Jake’s nightclub in the up-and-coming section ofTime Out London. It makes me freeze mid-sip, goose bumps raising over my arms.
Under much secrecy and with a cleverly executed viral marketing campaign, Saturday night saw the opening of Brick Lane’s newest and—at the risk of sounding uncool—coolest nightclub. Until its opening night, no one had a clue what was being done under the tarpaulin-covered monolith structure at the junction of Parker St. and Bond. Then the covers came off, the world’s highest-paid DJ played a set that almost blew the roof off the neo-gothic space, and all of those questions were answered.
“Surgery” (a name picked by a guest, apparently—another genius marketing ploy by the owners) has been touted as the next Ministry of Sound, and if last weekend was anything to go by, then they may well have hit the nail right on the head. Decadent, atmospheric, and ridiculously stylish, it is the place to be for all dance fans. (Or pseudo-cool journalists who want to be as cool as the people who were there on Saturday night.)
—Ed Smith
I breathe out. So, Jake’s club got a five-star review. I feel proud of him even though I know I have absolutely no right to feel anything on his behalf. I wonder if he’s seen it. He must have. An image of his boyish smile as he reads the review flashes before my eyes, and I smile too. I’m thrilled for him. I’d tell him that if I could. How would I even contact him? Didn’t he say something about chasing me? No doubt he has my number since I gave it to his maître d’. He also knows where I work and had his driver take me home ...