Page 3 of Take My Breath Away
It’d have been so easy, during the time I’ve known Perry, to launch a full scale seduction, but I’ve always stayed on the right side of the line, confining myself to flirting. It’s all because there’s abut,and it’s called Elliot. He wouldn’t think too much of me making a full-on move on his assistant, and he’d let me know it in no uncertain terms because he knows the sort of man I am.Iknow the sort of man I am. I don’t give a damn what most people may think of me, but Elliot’s my oldest, most valued friend, which doesn’t make him most people.
I’ve got some scruples, even if they are hidden somewhere deep and dark.
He burps and I’m enveloped in a beery cloud.
“James. James, James, James,” he says, slurring, his lips curving up into a sly smile. “Bet you like telling people what to do. I mean really, really,reallylike. Always flirting with me when you come into the office. Don’t think I don’t notice. ‘Cause I do.”
“And there was me, thinking I was being subtle. Here, drink some more.”
Perry does as he’s told, his former resistance forgotten.
He nods his head slowly, and his brow puckers as though he’s thinking hard, and trying to gather his thoughts.
“I’ve given it a lot of consid—consid—thought. Yes, thought. You’re hot. For an old man,” he adds.
“Very kind of you to say so.” Perhaps I should take the opportunity to tell him I still have all my own teeth and hair.
“You’re very welcome.” He takes another sip, this time managing to hold the mug himself. He’s still drunk, but the strong coffee seems to be taking the edge off his intoxication. “Can’t drink anymore. Sorry.” He puts the mug down with a clatter on the metal-topped table. Three quarters of it’s gone, and that’s good enough. Now, it’s a case of getting him up, out, and home.
“We going clubbing?” he says, when I pull him to his feet. He’s managing to keep upright, but he’s unsteady, swaying like a reed in the breeze.
“Not tonight. You need to get home and go to bed.”
And look forward to the monster hangover you’re going to have in the morning.
“Go to bed with you. I could show you what I can do with my—” He lurches forward, slinging his arms around me.
His surprise attack catches me off guard, causing me to stumble back a step or two.
“We can do all kinds of stuff. Kinky stuff. Do you like kinky stuff? You look like you like kinky stuff. Yeah, bet you’re a kinky old fucker.” He tries to kiss me, but I manage to duck and his lips slide across my ear, but I can’t duck his leg, which he manages to hook around mine as he starts to dry hump me.
“Stop. At once.” I slap him hard on the arse and he yelps; he drops his leg and blinks at me, making me think of an ill-treated puppy.
“That hurt. Don’t like spanking. Grant likes it, but I don’t. Bet you do. Knew you were kinky. I’m not kinky. And I told Grant that, I did. I said, I’m not wearing — certain things. And you know what he called me? Mr Whippy. Mr fucking Whippy. Didn’t get it, not at first. But then I did. Cold, bland, and vanilla. You don’t think I’m a Mr Whippy, do you?”
“No, Perry, I don’t. Not at all. Don’t you take any notice of Grant.”
I have no idea who Grant is, but I can guess. So this is the reason for Perry’s intoxication: boyfriend troubles.
Draped around me, he’s tightened his hold. His arms are coiled around my neck and his head falls forward onto my shoulder as I manhandle him out of the café. The burly Italian-looking guy behind the counter gives us a nod and a raise of his brows. He’s seen this and a whole lot more before.
“I’m taking you home. Perry? Where do you live? Do you live with Grant?” Grant who likes to spank Perry… I push the thought away. “Perry? Come on, tell me where you live.” Wherever it is, I’m going with him, because he’s too vulnerable to be left alone in the middle of Soho.
“In the basement.” He starts to laugh as though he’s said something hilarious, but I can’t see the joke.
I hail a cab, and the driver’s smile falls away when he sees the state of Perry.
“If he throws up—”
“He won’t,” I snap. Or at least I hope not. “Do you want this fare, or not?”
I don’t give him the chance to argue as I bundle Perry into the back.
“Where do you live?” I hope it’s not some godforsaken suburb miles and miles away.
“Told you. In the basement. At work.” He flops back into the corner and looks at me as though what he says makes perfect sense. “Don’t have a real home. Not anymore.” He frowns, something getting through his drink-soaked brain that he might need to explain a little.
“Gents—”
