Page 57 of London's Calling: Part 1
“Stop!” She pins me with a I dare you to argue with me look. “Just finish the bag, then you can go.”
Seeing she’s not going to back down and too exhausted to argue, I nod.
She releases me tentatively in case I rip it out as she as she lets go. “In the meantime…” she says, moving to the dresser and picking up something before returning to my side. “Call him.” She holds out my phone and the screen lights up with a dozen or so messages and missed calls as I take it. She shakes her head, reading my thoughts as to whether she’s read them. “I haven’t fucking read your messages. I was too concerned with the arsehole bleeding out in my bed.” She spins on her heels and storms from the room, muttering about making food for said arsehole.
Chapter Forty
Roni
It’s been two days since Mickey turned up and almost bled out on my hall floor and bed. Surprisingly, he’s still here. I convinced him to stay and let me take care of him. Honestly, he didn’t put up much of a fight. I’m not sure what that means, but for me it spells disaster.
Clayton has been calling every day, demanding I meet him for lunch, or dinner, visit his father. I’ve done none of them, and I’m just waiting for the moment he arrives here, bashing my door down. But it hasn’t happened yet, and I can pray it lasts a little longer.
Something I haven’t done though is have a chance to look at the information on the USB I mysteriously was gifted a few nights ago. I mean, I could have found time—if I truly wanted to, and that’s a problem. I’m not even sure if it matters what’s on there because I still haven’t decided if I’m going to pass it on to my father.
Being cocooned here with Mickey is nice—too nice, so it seems. This secret bubble we’ve created is comfy, familiar, and after he nearly died, I realised how short life is. Do I really want to spend it with a man who uses and abuses me doing my father’s bidding, or do I want something more…more real, intimate, just plain more everything.
My birthday is in two days, and my father is allowing me to throw a party. Believe it or not, I’m in charge of everything, even the choice of whether Clayton is invited, which he obviously isn’t. I know this is him letting me have one final thing I control, a last hoorah before the ridiculous sham of a wedding in just over a week, which we are still going ahead with despite Clayton’s father circling the grim reaper’s door.
Obviously with my total lack of interest in organising the wedding and Clayton and his mum busy between work and the hospital, Clayton hired a wedding planner. I’d be grateful if it weren’t for her calling me to discuss every minute detail.
Like it’s taunting me, my phone rings on the counter beside me where I’ve been tidying up after lunch.
I rest my hands on the counter, dropping my head between my shoulders. “Urgh, fuck off, Chloe!” I mutter.
It stops ringing only to immediately ring again.
“She’s persistent,” says Mickey from behind me, and I spin to find him leaning against the American style fridge, arms folded across his chest, which is on full display since he’s shirtless.
“She’s doing my fucking head in,” I grit out between clenched teeth, feeling like I could tear my hair out in frustration.
“Just answer it and tell her you can’t talk now because it’s lunch time.” He pushes away from the fridge and saunters toward me, a wicked gleam in his eye.
“What are you talking about, we just had lunch, or am I hallucinating and didn’t spend the last hour making, eating and then tidying up?”
When he reaches me, he picks up the still ringing phone and hands it to me before caging me in against the kitchen top. “Nah, we did all that, but I’m still kinda hungry,” he says, slowly dropping to his knees in front of me.
I’m shaking my head. “No, nope, not happening,” I protest, but it falls on deaf ears because he’s already pushed my dress up to my hips and is tugging at my underwear.
“Oh but it is, Ice Queen. It’s so on. If you won’t let me fuck you, then I’m afraid eating your pussy is the only thing that’s going to satisfying my appetite.” Cementing his words, he rips my thong to the side and drives his tongue between my lips, licking a path all the way to my clit.
My knees practically give out with the feel of his hot breath and firm press of his tongue as it glides over through my slit. “Fuck…Mickey!” My fucking phone begins ringing in my hand, and Mickey pulls back, looking up at me.
“Answer it, Ice Queen. Either tell her you’re busy…or I’m going to eat you out while you struggle to hold a coherent conversation with her. Choice is yours.” He shrugs, then returns to inflict more wickedly perfect torture upon me.
How the fuck he thinks I’m going to be able to hold a conversation with him doing— “Ah-ah, Jesus!” I cry as my thoughts are interrupted by a nip to my clit.
“Answer the call. I’m not going to let you come until you do,” he threatens, his words vibrating along my pussy.
“H-hello.”
“Ah, Veronica, there you are. So, we need to discuss your underwear. I’m assuming you want something elegant yet sexy.”
“Er, I…I don’t think that’s necessary. I can—” I suck in a sharp breath as Mickey thrusts a finger inside me.
“Veronica? Are you okay?” Chloe asks.
“No…er, yes, sorry.” I almost drop the phone as Mickey sucks on my clit while pumping a finger in and out of me. “Look…Chloe, erm, now’s not”—I slam my free hand down on Mickey’s head, fisting his hair to the point of pain, confirmed by Mickey’s guttural groan—“shit…I’m-going-to have-to-call-you-back.” The words tumble out in one long garble, then I end the call, dropping the phone to the counter.
