Page 2 of The Devil's Detail
He goes still, but doesn’t say anything. Did I mean to tell him it was a man I was with? He won’t be bothered, but?—
“Did you just say ‘he’?”
He’s watching me now. Every little nuance is being dissected and disambiguated.
I continue to stare at him. He thinks he’s the shit in interrogation. He forgets who he’s dealing with. I nod slowly at him.
He blows out a long slow breath. “Oh.”
“Is it a problem?”
His face changes to one of worry instantly, his head shaking aggressively. “God, no. Just didn’t think you liked it that much.” He shrugs his shoulders. He’s part owner of a sex club in London. Doesn’t get involved in the running of it, but I know he’s an investor as well as patron. And I know he doesn’t have a judgemental bone in his body about people’s orientations or inclinations.
“Well neither did I, until last night.” I’m trying to keep my tone light and breezy. I’m failing, and he’ll see straight through it.
His focus sharpens on me. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk it through?”
I really don’t want to delve into it. I’d never talk about technicalities. And as for emotions, well that isn’t happening. Not today.
So it’s my turn to give a little shrug. “Not sure I can. I signed an NDA.”
He chuckles. “Everyone signs NDAs, and last night was no names. I was Mr Black, and my Queen was Miss Roulette.” He grins like a savage. God knows what that woman had to put up with.
“Yeah, well I had to sign extra ones. And I was blindfolded throughout the whole affair. So not sure what the extra NDA was about. I never saw the man.” I smirk a little at the memory of the blindfold.
His mouth has dropped open in shock. “The lucky bastard. He fucked your brains out and you don’t even know what he looks like. Whoa, I’m all over that.”
I might have known he’d be amused by it. Anything out of the ordinary, and he’s all over it like a rash.
“So what can you say?” He sips his coffee, perusing me.
I feign nonchalance. “We had sex a lot.”
He makes a ‘yeah, boring’ noise in the back of his throat and I grin. I know this is winding him up.
“Please tell me you were topping.” He strikes a ‘you better have been’ pose. I laugh. “Fucking hell, Jackson. A mountandbottoming? You’ve lost it.”
He’s disgusted with my submission, but that’s a him problem. I adored it. And I’m grinning like a madman at him to rub it in just a bit more.
“Anything else?” he prods. “You might as well hit me with all the details you can. Name, bank account number, cock size?” I go to open my mouth and he shouts, “Whoa, whoa. No cock size, please. I was joking.”
“I wasn’t going to divulge the fucking massive size of his cock. But his name was Bonney.”
“Bonney by name and nature?” He’s giggling like a schoolgirl.
“Mr Jameson Bonney. Oh, and he was British.”
He nearly chokes on his drink. “Fucking Jameson Bonney. What a pretentious prick.” He stands and strikes a pose with his hands on his hips, and in a posh English accent states, “The name’s Bonney, Jameson Bonney.”
My face changes, as he did sound just like that.
“Oh, my fucking God, he pulled that one on you.”
Yeah, and I bought it. Drank it down like a naive man, not one who’s actually completed some of the most dangerous covert ops Mr Jameson Bonney only performs in his hit spy film franchise. This could have been one of those scenes.
“Yeah, he did. Just before he demanded I suck his cock.”
He looks like he might vomit on me. “Do you have to? I really don’t need that image in my head.”
