We’re seated at a relatively quiet table. For once I’m glad that a waiter called Tarquin takes twenty minutes telling us about the specials – it gives me time to regulate my heartbeat. I choose ‘Steak à la McDonald’, expecting a prime cut of meat draped in a sauce made of the finest Scotch whisky. Instead I get a hamburger. Marco has a strange sense of humour.
At first, conversation is awkward, so I go for the safe option. We swap tales of the events in our lives since our last meeting, me being somewhat economical with the truth. I’ve done this three times in the last two months now. I’m considering putting it on tape for any future reunions.
Doug tells me that he’s never married but he lived with a girlfriend in Manchester for six years before deciding that it wasn’t right. Now, that sounds like the Doug I knew.
We share a sticky toffee pudding. As I contemplate my ice cream, I do a quick mental review of the situation. I have to say there’s been an incredible thaw in his attitude since this morning.
In fact, I hate to be too confident, but I actually think we’re having a good time. The starter was a bit awkward, main course was decidedly warmer and by the time dessert came there was lots of laughing, accidental brushes of hands and long lingering looks.
I contemplate Doug and, to my eternal amazement, realise that he’s being, well, just Doug again – he’s charming, funny, sweet and comfortable. I spoke too soon – he’s just gone silent.
‘What are you thinking?’ I ask, not sure that I want to hear the answer.
‘I’m thinking that I want to take you home with me. What are you thinking?’ he says, staring at me earnestly.
This is a bad idea. It is. A really bad idea. The worst idea I’ve ever heard. I just can’t quite think why at the moment because my libido has assumed control of my faculties and absolutely, definitely wants to play.
‘I’m thinking that I just might let you,’ I reply, trying to smile seductively, but probably only managing inane and gormless.
We take a cab back to his house in Fulham. It’s a three storey town house on a litter-free street, lined with BMWs, Porsches and Mercs.
Inside, Doug switches on a lamp to reveal a lounge straight out of Good Housekeeping. The walls are cream, with gold uplighters focused on prints of Monet, Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci’s works of art. The flooring is stripped wood and there are two black leather sofas bordering a glass coffee table with an antique gold base. The television and hi-fi are neatly set in a glass unit on the far wall and there are brass statues on the two glass side tables. I’m terrified to touch anything in case I leave finger marks. How does he dust all this?
He presses a button on a remote control and the sounds of Quincy Jones flood the room. I cringe a little. This is paint-by-numbers seduction and, to my shame, not only are my hormones whisking up a frenzy, but the rest of me is enjoying it too.
Doug pours me a glass of champagne, then takes my hand and guides me through to the bedroom. He kisses me slowly, then urgently, pressing me against a wall.
I pull at his shirt, sending buttons ricocheting across the room. He tears at my dress and it dissolves into pieces before falling to the floor. Shit, there goes that refund. Still, at least I wore my black, lace, G-string and underwired, ‘hold all your bits in place’ body suit.
He pulls me up and over to the bed. He kneels above me and bends to kiss my lips, my neck… all the way down to my toes. If this goes on for much longer, then I’m going to come before he does. I remember his haste in the sexual department and realise that’ll be a first.
He slides back up to kiss me on the lips, at the same time reaching into a bedside drawer, pulling out a condom, opening it and slipping it on with one hand. This boy’s been practising.
‘I love you, Cooper. I always have,’ he whispers as he slips inside me. His words send my lust level into orbit. He still loves me. Wow.
He moves slowly back and forward, murmuring in my ear the whole time, telling me everything he’s going to do to me. My legs are locked around his back just in case he thinks of escaping. There’s no way I’m letting this one go.
He’s relentless, moving my body into positions that I thought were only possible after years of intensive yoga. Every time I think he’s going to climax, he controls himself and carries on. After multiple orgasms on my side, he finally lets go and comes, gasping and grinding to a halt. He collapses beside me.
I want to say something, but I can’t. I’m in shock. This guy has developed serious skills. Oh, and he loves me. Or was that just something he blurted out in the moment?
He leans over and traces my face with his finger.
‘I love you, Carly,’ he tells me again. Not an accidental outburst then.
I smile back and lean over to kiss him. Nope, I’m not even going to go there. Too many times before, I’ve rushed into the whole ‘love you’ stuff and it’s ended up in chaos. This is a new me. I’m going to take my time, be sure of how I feel before promising the earth and delivering disaster. I’m a reformed character. But I have to say, I’m feeling something here that’s more than just lust.
‘So what happens next, Mr Cook?’
‘Carly, there’s no way I’m letting you go again. Is that okay with you?’ he smiles and pushes my hair back off my face.
‘I think maybe I could get used to the idea.’
He holds me tight as he
