She’d googled Redford, of course. She’d even used her proper computer, the dual-monitor desktop in her bedroom, despite the fact that her touchscreen laptop and a small mountain of pillows were far more comfortable. She’d simply needed as much visual detail as possible. It had been a purely professional exercise: she’d wanted to find out if he already had an online presence, and if she was right in assuming that the website he needed had something to do with his art. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, exactly—but what she’d found were images of his work, images beautiful enough to take her breath away, shared on multiple sites and social media accounts by fans who asked each other where Redford Morgan had gone.
He’s busy charming tenants in a block of flats in South Nottinghamshire. And yes, to answer your countless questions, he is indeed still creating.
She’d also found tabloid photographs, ones that surprised her far more than his talent and popularity. They’d shown big, rough Redford Morgan exiting glittering events on the arm of some society blonde with huge teeth. The woman was pretty and well-dressed, with glossy hair and designer shoes. She looked at Red the way a wolf eyed a sheep.
That was when Chloe had stopped googling. Something about that look sent a shiver creeping down her spine. Something about witnessing that look felt like . . . snooping. Which she had vowed to stop doing. For that very reason, she’d decided to forget all about her research, to act as though she knew nothing of Red’s life. She would be the picture of ignorance, and therefore innocence, at their website consultation.
She hoped.
Chapter Six
When Red was six or seven, he’d had a babysitter named Mandy. Mandy was only about thirteen herself, but she’d watched him in the evenings for a tenner a week, which in those days was enough money to keep her rolling in snacks and the occasional sneaky cigarette. She was a proper bookworm, but she’d wanted to do a good job watching him and all. She’d compromised by shoving him into bed early and reading aloud from her book of the moment for an hour or two. He blamed Mandy, to this day, for the strange quality of his dreams.
Thanks to her copies of Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan, Red’s nights were always a bit too vivid. He had Technicolor dreams, through-the-looking-glass dreams, down-the-rabbit-hole dreams. Dreams where shooting stars streaked fuchsia across bruised, sunset skies, and people didn’t move so much as swirl into existence toward him, and music lived under his skin. It wasn’t exactly normal, but it was what he’d grown used to. Which was why last night’s dream had disturbed him so much.
Last night’s dream had been different.
Dark, for one thing, pitch black, as if the lights were off inside his mind. Hot, hot like a midsummer evening, the air sultry and rich. And he’d been with a woman. Touched her, kissed her, woken up with his own come painting his belly and her name on his lips.
Chloe.
Suffice it to say, he wasn’t too happy about the implications. His wet dreams were few and far between because he was a grown man, and when they did happen, they involved cheerful, faceless women who didn’t mind getting come on their tits. Maybe Chloe wouldn’t mind getting come on her tits, either—Dream Chloe certainly hadn’t—but she definitely wasn’t cheerful or faceless. She also wasn’t orgasm safe.
He couldn’t stop reliving that dream, though. That fantastic fucking dream.
After a morning of mucking up basic maintenance, and an afternoon of struggling to bleed 3B’s radiator—which was impressive, since it should be categorically impossible to fail at bleeding a radiator—he’d given up and gone home. He was now sitting in his bedroom like a lemon, as if returning to the scene of the crime would render him able to focus again. Un-bloody-likely, but Christ, something had to give.
Red fell back against the pillows and sighed. He was beginning to think he had some kind of fetish for unsuitable women. First there’d been Pippa, and now this disturbing interest in Chloe. It wasn’t attraction, exactly, couldn’t be, because Red had only ever been attracted to women he actually liked. No, this was something else. Something that whispered to him even now, heating his skin with memories of last night, swallowing up his good intentions and making his cock swell against his thigh. He took a breath, then another. He closed his eyes and drummed his fingers against the sheets. He resisted sudden, twisted temptation for as long as he could.
Which turned out to be about five seconds. Then he cracked like a perverted egg.
He was still wearing his uniform overalls, so it took one hand to pop open the buttons, reach past the waistband of his shorts, and palm his cock. When his mind helpfully produced the three-day-old memory of Chloe’s bare calves and gleaming collarbone, he was caught between self-disgust and relief. On the one hand, it was incredibly weird that those glimpses were enough to get him going. On the other, it was also pretty convenient, since he would never actually see her naked body.
He could imagine it, though. And he did. Inside his mind, Chloe Brown was in his bed because she belonged there. He had no idea why she belonged, and Dream Chloe was in no state to explain it to him, but she definitely did. He could feel her soft skin against his, her breath in his ear, her nails digging into his biceps. A phantom scent haunted him, salty like the ocean air on a seaside holiday—or like the sweat between the bodies of two people chasing sensation.
He squeezed the base of his shaft and felt an electric pulse of pleasure. His other hand moved to cup his heavy sac, full and firm and tight against his palm. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried by the realization that this wouldn’t take long. A minute, at most. He stroked himself hard, twisting his fist as he reached the swollen head, smoothing slick pre-come over sensitive skin with his thumb.
Sinking into her was tempting, but he moved down her naked body instead. Eyes shut against the truth of his own weakness, he breathed her in, bathed in her heat. Lowered his head. Swept his tongue over her, parting plump labia to tease her clit and taste the wet, scorching center of her cunt. In the real world, he shuddered, as if his body was overwhelmed. His next breath sounded more like a gasp. He stroked himself faster and thought about how she’d react, how her thighs would tighten around him and her hips would arch up toward him and that dangerous voice of hers would crack on his name—
Someone knocked at his front door.
Red shot out of bed and stared down at himself. His overalls gaped open in a helpful little window of perversion, displaying his jutting cock—also known as the undeniable evidence of what he’d almost done. But, he told himself feverishly, last night didn’t count since it had been a dream, and this didn’t count because he hadn’t actually come. It didn’t count. Everything was fine. He cleared his throat, shoved his traitorous dick out of sight, and headed for the bathroom. On his way, he called in the direction of the door, “Just a sec.”
The last voice he’d wanted to hear replied, “Please, don’t hurry on my account.” A crisp, deadpan tone that he now knew signified a joke.
Red froze, asked God what he’d ever done to deserve this, then remembered his activities of approximately sixty seconds ago and realized the answer. Hoping he was wrong, knowing he wasn’t, he choked out, “Chloe?”
“Very astute, Mr. Morgan.”