Sated

Book 0: Suited To You Trilogy

by Demelza Hart

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

Sated ? Book Three in The Suited To You Trilogy Tara is moving on without The Suit. But can she forget him? When The Suit turns up expectantly, is he prepared to do what?s necessary for the sake of their relationship? The ball is in Tara?s court?will she finally realise what she wants.

Release date: January 30, 2014

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 82

Sample

Chapter One

‘Coming, coming, coming, coming …’

It was clear, however, that he wasn’t.

I lay there as Tom Whateverhisnamewas squeaked back and forth through me. Not that he himself was squeaking, but his IKEA bedframe certainly was. I pitied the neighbours.

He kept up the mantra for a while longer as I stared at the damp patch on his ceiling. If I tilted my head sideways – not easy considering there was a bloke pinning me down – it looked a bit like Bart Simpson breaking wind.

At last Tom’s actions matched his words. He released with a heavy grunt and stopped moving abruptly. I’d considered being polite and faking it for him, but now I wouldn’t bother.

He rolled away, pulled off the condom, tossing it casually onto the bedside table (strewn with crisp packets – prawn cocktail flavour), and lay back with a broad grin on his face.

I continued to stare at flatulent Bart as I contemplated the most disappointing fuck I could remember. It had started well. Tom was a rugby player for a London club and had a body I could have licked all day – which was about all it was good for, as he sure as hell didn’t know what else to do with it. Even by my current abysmal standards, he was the most selfish cock imaginable.

‘Fucking incredible that was. Cheers, Cara.’

‘Tara.’

‘Tara … yeah … whatever … great cunt.’

Gee, thanks. I got up, gathered my clothes, and headed for the shower.

‘Good for you?’ he called after me.

‘No.’ I disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door abruptly behind me.

I sat on the loo, head in hands. Shit, I was crying again. For God’s sake, Tara, pull yourself together. I squeezed my eyes tight shut but only one image appeared behind them – Patrick.

Patrick. Patrick. Patrick. Always Patrick.

I’d tried. I’d tried so bloody hard to move on. It was me who’d ended it, after all. Weeks of spontaneous, exhibitionist, crazy sex – the best sex imaginable – weren’t enough, I’d told myself. It was my mistake, falling for him. It hadn’t been in the original plan.

I’d started to look for more from him. And he’d started to give it to me, I’ll admit, but I’d started to want normality and the rest. He’d been resistant. Scared to get too close.

Who was I kidding? I was as scared as he was. Having your cake and eating it wasn’t possible, was it? He was too perfect. Perfect Patrick. No. That was definitely impossible. So I ran.

But now, after weeks of trying to pretend I hadn’t cut off my nose to spite my face, I was failing miserably.

I’d tried finding a nice, steady boyfriend – as if!

I’d tried abstinence – I managed a week (survived only with several trips to Ann Summers).

I’d tried crazy, Jägerbomb-induced one-night stands – God, I hate Jägerbombs.

I thought about contacting the guy who’d started me down this whole crazy path, the one who arranged the night on the Tube. But without The Suit – my Suit, my Patrick – it was pointless.

Who was I kidding? He was in me and I couldn’t get him out. And he kept texting.

I deleted his number. I blocked his number. He had others. The texts kept coming. Not to freaky stalker extent, but just enough to let me know he was still there. Just enough to let me know he was hurting.

Screw him for bloody hurting! I was the one who was hurting. I was the one left an emotional wreck … wasn’t I?

I showered quickly, dressed behind the closed bathroom door and left. Tom Selfishcock was asleep. He wouldn’t have got a goodbye even if he hadn’t been.

I walked home through the chill, grey streets of South London at 2 a.m., avoiding the splashing mini-cabs and night shift meanderers. When I got home my phone pinged. It was one of Patrick’s numbers.

Working late on the most tedious merger of all time. Can’t focus on it. Can only focus on you. Where are you, Tara? Where are you?

This was the man who, at the beginning of our relationship, had left it to me to get in touch. Back then he knew I would. Back then he knew I was in his hands. Now he didn’t. Now he was showing his humanity, his carefully hidden vulnerability. And I loved him for it all the more. Who was I punishing? Why?

He’d hurt me. His emotional distance, his inability to move forward, to draw me into the details of his life. It had fucking hurt. I couldn’t be doing with that any longer. But this was hurting more.

I missed him. I missed his smell, the way he rubbed his chin when distracted, his clothes, his shiny shoes, the click of his heel protectors. I missed the way he smiled when I sang, the way I could talk for hours to him and barely notice a second had passed. And I missed his cock. God, I missed his cock. Every vein and ridge and line of it. If I closed my eyes I could picture it perfectly, the way it bent slightly upwards at the very top, the way the glans darkened to the colour of mulberry when he was fully erect. I missed the taste of him. I wanted his come. I wanted to remember it and drink it into me. Was that mad? Bad? Was I that weird? Were other girls walking down the street trying to recall the taste of a bloke’s semen? For fuck’s sake, I was a wreck.

I hovered over the reply button. Opening the door, climbing the stairs, getting into bed, I stared at his text. I drafted a reply – Stop this, Patrick – but I didn’t send. I turned off my phone and closed my eyes. Sleep was intermittent and teasing. My dreams were him.

Chapter Two

There were no more texts in the next few days. I told myself that was good and proper. I told myself that I was fine with it.

I wasn’t. I became snappy again. Polly kept scowling at me. I scowled back. She’d taken down the postcard I’d sent her from New York. About bloody time. Sort of.

Rumours began in the office. There were to be changes, apparently. Nerves were fraught. We watched Sarah, our editor, as she glided around, her slim, gazelle-like calves floating her through the corridors. She seemed preoccupied, certainly, but not enough to prevent her complimenting me and smiling warmly. How long could I remain in the good books? She seemed to go out of her way to ask how I was and give me attention.

It had been a week and a half since the last text. Now I really was despondent. He never normally left it so long.

I sat at my desk, chin resting heavily on the heel of my hand, staring blankly ahead, thinking of his cock … and his eyes … and what was behind his eyes.

‘Tara.’

I jumped wildly with a yelp. Sarah was at my shoulder. She smiled down apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘Bloody hell. You gave me a heart attack! Sorry. Shit. Sorry.’ I tried to recover quickly but feared I was failing. She just laughed. She was always so bloody nice.

‘Come into my office, Tara. I have something to discuss with you.’ She let her hand trail over my shoulder as she went. I flared my eyes at Polly and turned down my mouth in bewilderment. She shrugged and waved her hand to indicate I should go.

Sarah had already paced swiftly down the corridor and into her office. I scampered in after her.

There sat Patrick Lark.

I just stared at him. And, for a mere moment, he just stared back. My jolt of emotion, confusion, and joy at seeing him was reflected in the open pleasure etched on his own face. But then the mask came down. His face close. . .