Page 95 of Untether

‘Fuck,’ he says, ‘I think I need a flannel. Can I use something wet, do you think?’

‘Just make sure you wring it out as hard as you can before you do it,’ I advise. I raise myself up with difficulty and resume my seated position as he takes me on a little virtual trip. I recognise his bathroom floor tiles before the phone is laid flat somewhere.

There’s the hiss of running water, followed by lots of drips, and then more rubbing on the screen. A blurry, fluffy towel comes towards me, turning the screen black, and then Cal’s handsome face appears from above.

I grin at him, still giddy from that slapstick high. ‘Hey there, stud.’

‘Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious.’

‘Did you get your cum out of all thecrevices?’ I manage to ask before collapsing in a fit of giggles again.

‘Your concern is truly touching, but yeah, I think so.’

‘Good. Because that would have been an awfully awkward conversation with the Genius Bar.’

He flashes me a cheeky grin. ‘Yeah, it would. And for that, you’re going to watch me wash my cock.’

He sets the phone on a ledge and gets to work rinsing the washcloth, orflannel(such a weird boarding school word—it gives me the ick), again before tending to his still-semi-hard dick. He’s so fucking adorable in the brighter light of his bathroom, his dark hair falling over his face as he looks down, stomach flat and hard and dissected by my favourite trail of hair.

He really is a beautiful man.

Still, I have to ask. ‘Did you mean to aim right for the phone?’

He gives me a sheepish grin. ‘I was aiming for your tits.’

‘Which wereon the screen. So that’s a yes, I guess?’

‘It’s aI didn’t really think through the consequences.I got a bit carried away, as you could probably tell. Besides, I wanted you to have a bird’s-eye view of the action.’

That sets me off again. ‘Ohmigod, I definitely had that. That splat was hilarious. Just hilarious. It sounded like bird shit hitting a windshield, but louder.’

‘Did you just compare my powerful, masculine ejaculation to abird shitting on a windscreen?’ he hisses.

‘Yes. Yes I did. Only, you know, far more erotic, and, um, masculine.’

‘Aida fucking Russell. The mouth on you. If I were there, I’d put you right over my knee.’ He picks up the phone and I smirk at him as he takes me back into his bedroom.

‘I’d like that,’ I tell him honestly.

‘I know you would, you little slut. Now, let’s get you off. Maybe we can see if you can spurt all overyourscreen.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him through my giggles, ‘I think that ship has sailed tonight. But you made me laugh so hard I forgot all about the people who called me a haggard old whore and a disgrace to Britain for a few minutes, in case that makes you feel better?’

‘Bullshit,’ he says. I can tell he’s kind of pissed, and I kind of love it. ‘Open your fucking legs for me and show me how much you want me.’

62

AIDA

‘Come on, sweetie,’ I tell Pip. ‘Just get your blazer on and it’ll all be fine.’

I’m doing that thing where I’m being extra sweet and caring to compensate for how close I’m coming to losing my shit, because I have five more minutes to get the boys out the door for school and there are at least twenty reporters outside my house. While I couldn’t be more pissed that they’re here, my top priority right now is getting the boys to school on time and with minimal trauma to them.

Not only that, but the WhatsApp group for our street is blowing up with a combination of those who are even more pissed than me that my “headline-worthy antics” are disrupting everyone’s morning and those trying to sort out a temporary guard or two from a private security firm we sometimes use, because I am by no means the only high-profile resident on this street.

Judging from the noise outside, no guard has yet materialised. Why is it that the repeated sound of my own name shouted in that cajoling, persistent manner has me itching to slap someone hard?

That itch grows worse when I look at Pip’s little white face. This is a kid so wracked with anxiety that we had to tell him Santa didn’t exist two years ago so he’d stop spiralling into hysterics over the idea of a random dude infiltrating our house in the dead of night. (I get it. It’s a creepy concept, if you think about it too hard.)

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