When he was done with that, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, he gave it a sharp tug and she fell into him. Her hand came up to cushion her fall and it landed on his chest. He dropped her wrist; she tilted her head back and opened her mouth to say something to diffuse his anger when she saw his head descending.
Then he was kissing her, hard, hot, open-mouthed and hungry, his arms wrapping around her, crushing her to his solid body.
Her hand not trapped between them went to his shoulder, not in a loving embrace but to hold herself up as her knees had turned to mush.
She felt his kiss burn from her mouth, through to her breasts, down passed her belly, straight between her legs and when he lifted his head, she was nigh on panting and her body was on fire.
“I don’t like waiting,” he growled low.
“So noted,” she breathed.
“You’re going to be late, I don’t give a fuck if it’s five minutes, you call,” he demanded.
She nodded. He glared at her.
She stood still and took it silently, not wanting to throw any fuel on the already scorching fire.
After awhile of standing in the kitchen crushed to Cash, his arms still holding her tight, she braved the wild beast.
“Do you want me to make dinner?”
“No, I don’t want you to make fucking dinner,” he shot back.
Obviously, she’d spoke too soon.
“We’re going out,” he announced.
“But, Aileen went out and bought –” she started.
His arms got tighter, interrupting her word flow by squeezing the breath out of her. “We’re going, fucking, out.”
“Okay,” she wheezed.
His arms loosened and he let her go, reached out, grabbed his whisky and threw it back in one gulp. Then down the glass went with another angry clunk, he seized her purse, tossed it to her and took her hand, dragging her to the chair where his suit jacket was. He snatched it from the chair then hauled her upstairs, hand still in hers.
They were at the front door, he’d put on his suit jacket and was shrugging on his overcoat and Abby was watching him.
His silence was flipping her out. So she broke it.
“You say ‘fuck’ a lot when you’re angry,” she informed him for lack of anything else to say.
His eyes sliced to her. “Abby, I’m not in the mood for you being cute.”
At his words, she felt the room pitch crazily.
“You think I’m cute?” she whispered.
His eyes skewered her to the spot and she decided not to speak again.
Then he opened the door, took her hand and marched her through.
Abby stood at Cash’s bathroom sink, hands curled around the edge of the basin, deep breathing to stop herself from hyperventilating.
It was time for bed. This was going to happen now.
She’d agreed to it. She was going to have to go through with it.
She wasn’t only near to hyperventilating because she was terrified.
She was also near-to hyperventilating because she was terrified about what it said about her because she, deep down, wanted it.
That night, after dinner, after walking the romantic streets of Bath with Cash, after they came back to his house and ate the leftover pears with cream and chocolate sauce, she’d rinsed and put the dishes in the dishwasher.
While she was doing this she realised if this was real, if he had asked her out and this was their third date, even though (before Ben, obviously) she had a strict six-dates-before-sex rule, she would be doing something just like this with Cash.
And looking forward to it.
She might have even done it on the second date.
Earlier that evening Cash had nursed his anger on the short walk into town (he lived in a townhouse just off the Circus). He’d nursed it through the maitre d’ of the impossibly busy, posh restaurant scurrying to find the Fabulously Rich and Famous Cash Fraser a table (a prime-spot two-top at the window out of which the Maitre d’ rushed a couple enjoying the final sips of their coffee). He’d nursed it through a glass of neat whisky that he drank while they contemplated the menu and ordered. And he’d nursed it through their starters.
Abby learned two things the hard way. The first being that Cash Fraser did, indeed, not like to be kept waiting. The second being that Cash Fraser was formidable when he was angry and thus, one should do all in their power not to let that happen.
Once he’d thawed (somewhere in the middle of them consuming their mains), he was replenishing Abby’s wine, when she quietly said, “I’m sorry I was late, Cash.”
His eyes went from her wine glass to her. He finished his task, put the bottle on the table and Abby held her breath as he got out of his chair, throwing his cloth napkin on the table by his plate.
She had no idea what he was going to do and she watched him round the table and stop beside her.
At his height, her head was tilted back at an impossible angle to look up at him and not a single thought entered her paralysed mind.
Then he leaned down, wrapped his hand around the back of her head and touched his lips briefly to hers.
When he was finished, he said against her mouth softly, “Don’t do it again.”
“I won’t. I promise,” she whispered back.
He lifted up, kissed her forehead and then walked back around the table, sat down, shook his napkin out and laid it in his lap.
He calmly resumed eating.
After the shock of this tender act had worn off, Abby became aware that people were watching.
Some of them were trying to hide the fact that they were watching the fascinating show of an internationally famous man eating dinner with his partner.
Some of them weren’t trying to hide anything, they were watching openly.
Abby felt a sense of desolation that there was a possibility that Cash’s action was a performance for their benefit, not a demonstration of affectionate forgiveness.
But she’d never know because she could never ask.
She’d hidden her disappointment and drawn him out by asking about his music (he very much liked old jazz, not just Nina Simone but also Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, Duke Ellington and the like). She’d asked him about his work (he couldn’t tell her much, it was confidential, but he’d gotten into the business while he was attending Oxford, working at a summer internship and he discovered the possibility someone was stealing and selling company secrets and instead of whistle-blowing, he’d quietly investigated, found it to be true, presented his evidence and it all started from there).
They passed the rest of dinner in companionable conversation and decided against dessert in favour of the pears at the townhouse.
However, when they left the restaurant, instead of turning toward his home, Cash turned her toward Bath.
It was cold. She thought at first too cold for a stroll through an ancient city.
She’d decided (luckily, considering they ended up in a posh restaurant, unfortunately, considering they took a walk after) to wear a slim, black pencil-skirt with a black, long-sleeved t-shirt, black, high-heeled boots and finishing the outfit with her hip-length, black wool coat that closed only by a tie-belt (her makeup that evening was her “Sophisticated Casual” look).
At first, he held her hand then, noticing she was cold, he held her. His arm going around her shoulders, he tucked her into his side as they strolled.
They didn’t talk. They just walked, letting the beauty of Bath tell its tale as they did so.
Then something strange happened.
A flash of light which could only come from a photographer caught them, jarring them out of their silent, comfortable cocoon and back into the real world.