Page 15 of Good Girl

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CHAPTER FOUR

Sandro

SHEDOESN’TSAYa word on the short walk home.

I feel like such an asshole, I can’t even bring myself to make any throwaway conversation.

How could I have thought it would be a good idea to take her into that playroom? I guess I assumed it’d be okay because she’s been acting pretty offhand about what we’ve come here to do. In the bedroom earlier I sensed she was keen to get on with it, but I held back because I wanted to take things slowly, to have some build-up—to show her I wasn’t the easy lay she thought I was. I imagined going to that club might create some anticipation. That she’d get all hot and bothered at the things she’d see there. In my mind, it had been just an extension of foreplay.

It’s crystal fucking clear now, though, that all that confidence she’s been projecting about having sex has been a front and I’ve been too distracted by my determination to control the situation to notice.

She’s so subdued as I let us into the apartment that I’m afraid she’s beating herself up now for not being more gutsy.

My chest aches at the anxiety I’ve caused her.

I need to make it up to her,pronto.

‘Let me run you a bath,’ I suggest as we kick off our shoes in the hallway.

‘A bath?’

From the look on her face, you’d think I just suggested she go skinny dipping in the Arno.

‘Sì. To help you relax after your shock.’ I throw her a teasing smile, hoping a bit of humour might lighten the mood.

She blinks at me, then nods. It’s a jerky movement and I’m suddenly terrified she’s about to cry.

‘I’ll fix you a glass of wine to drink while it’s running,’ I say, turning away quickly and heading for the kitchen.

There is a low pull of shame in my belly as I yank open the fridge door. I can’t stand to see a woman cry, especially if it’s of my making. That’s one of the reasons I don’t do long-term relationships. No emotional fall-out to deal with.

I find an ice-cold bottle of champagne and pour a generous measure into a flute. Pausing for a moment, I take a breath and give myself a good talking-to before heading back to deliver the drink to her. I find her in the living room, perched on the edge of the sofa as if she’s expecting me to throw her out any second and is primed to leave.

‘Here you go,’ I say, holding the glass out to her.

She takes it with a small, grateful smile and I nod, relieved she’s not burst into tears in my absence.

‘I’ll go and run that bath,’ I tell her, heading straight out of the room before she can reply.

I fill the enormous tub almost to the brim and add lots of lavender-scented bubble bath for good measure. Then I light all the candles that are positioned in colourful little semi-melted mounds around the edge and turn off the main light, casting the room into a soft, comforting glow.

If that doesn’t help her relax, I don’t know what will.

Except for an orgasm, of course. But that’s the next step in my plan to win back her good favour.

She looks at me with wary eyes when I come out to tell her the bath is ready, murmuring her thanks before slipping off, her shoulders hunched and her chin dipped.

While she’s in there, I pace the room, agitation making me antsy. I know I’ve got a lot of making up to do to restore her faith in me. The last thing I want is for her to decide to go home tomorrow, convinced I don’t have her best interests at heart. My father would not be pleased to hear I’d pissed off the youngest daughter of Maxim Darlington-Hume in twenty-four hours flat.

And, to be honest, I’d be gutted not to get the opportunity to get to know Juno better. I’ve really started to like her. She’s such a smart, fascinating woman who clearly has her own issues with family, which has made me feel closer to her. It seems we’re more in sync than I’d initially thought.

Twenty minutes later she emerges from the bathroom wrapped in an oversized towelling robe with her long hair freshly washed, dried and hanging in a smooth sheet down her back. I have a strong urge to wrap it around my hands and pull her close, to drag that robe from her curvaceous body and do all manner of pleasurable things to her. But I know I need to tread carefully here. I don’t want to spook her again. This requires some careful handling.

‘I thought you might have gone to bed,’ she says in a quiet voice, tapping the brush she’s carrying gently against her thigh.

I move towards her, holding up my hands in a peace offering. ‘I wanted to make sure you’re okay.’ Taking the brush from her, I gesture towards the nearest sofa. ‘Sit down. Let me brush your hair.’

‘Seriously?’ she says, her nose wrinkled in surprise.