Chapter 17: Taming Mr. Walker: Chapter 17

Charlie

“I’m so sorry. It took ages to get the stain out.” I sit down at the table again, my eyes darting everywhere but Mark’s. I’m a terrible liar. He’ll be able to detect I was touching another man’s dick just from my face.

He smiles and looks pointedly at my chest. “It’s still there.”

Oops.

He doesn’t seem to notice my twitchy behaviour, or perhaps he just thinks I’ve got first-date nerves, for he leans over, grabs my traitorous hands, and gives them a kiss, the poor unsuspecting bloke not aware of where they have just been.

“Don’t worry, you’re still the sexiest woman in here, stain or no stain.”

“Uh-huh,” I stammer.

“Fancy an obnoxiously priced cocktail?” he asks, gently rubbing circles on my slutty hands. I force a smile.

“Sure.” I sneak a glance at the far side of the bar as Mark stands up. Danny Walker thankfully hasn’t returned from the toilets, probably still trying to get his stains out.

Karl catches my gaze and smiles back quizzically. He knows.

I must have an arrow pointing to my head with the word ‘hussy.’

I can’t be here when Danny reappears. “Wait, Mark?” I call after Mark, and he turns. “Let’s go somewhere more fun.”

***

Two hours later, and I’m drunk. I don’t mean tipsy, giggling like a little girl drunk. I mean off your head, eyes-rolling-back-in-your-head intoxicated. For the past hour, I think I’ve been having a delightfully intelligent conversation with Mark. I’m not sure if he agrees.

He asks if I want to go back to his for a nightcap.

“Why not?” I squint at him. What a slut I am. I can’t handle two penises in one night. I’ll just have a nightcap, then get a cab home.

My head is really spinning.

He looks delighted. “I’ll order a cab.”

Thirty minutes later, I have slightly sobered up, and the cab pulls up outside Mark’s house a few streets away from Notting Hill station.

“The entire house is yours?” I ask, bewildered, eyeing the huge Victorian semi-detached house.

“It is,” he responds casually.

For a second, I think he’s joking. This house is the size of Tristan’s house, and he’s a multi-millionaire.

“Charlie, are you coming in?”

I suddenly realise I am standing in the pathway with my mouth open, and Mark is waiting with the front door open.

Inside the house is even sexier than the outside. It clearly has had every detail professionally designed, from the radiator valves to the art deco pieces scattered casually through the hall.

There’s a stonking collection of art lining the hallway, which seems to expand into every other room.

What did I do to deserve this? I mean, I’m okay looking, but this guy is seriously out of my league. He could have collected a model- or influencer-type in that fancy hotel bar.

If I rounded up all the blokes I’d been with in my lifetime, and aggregated their looks, wealth, and brains, this guy would still be more intelligent, handsome, and wealthy. With the exception of Danny Walker, of course.

I relax into his cinema-style sofa, which has more appliances than my kitchen with its built-in fridge compartment and speakers. He flips a button, and I yelp as the sofa reclines ninety degrees. OK, so we are moving to the next base quickly.

He tops my glass up to the brim with wine before I have a chance to say no. I’m not sure that’s such a great idea. I feel a little queasy after the concoction of banana and vanilla vodka cocktails. Now this syrupy wine. Bah.

“Charlie.” He sets my glass down and leans over me. “Am I allowed a kiss?”

I laugh nervously. “I’ve no objections.” One kiss won’t hurt. I mean, I’m single, right? Danny Walker isn’t beating down my door asking for commitment.

This is it. I’ve really got to pull out my best tricks here. This guy is used to models swinging off his chandeliers, not drunk I.T. Support girls.

His tongue enters my mouth, and I carefully edge mine into his. Ah, this is a bit of a deep throat! This guy has got a seriously long tongue. A bit too long … my stomach lurches. Oh no, this is not good. Not good at all. I feel wine waves in my stomach.

Mark tries to get on top of me on the recliner sofa, and a hiccup escapes me into his mouth.

“Sorry.” I cover my mouth with my hand as his brows furrow slightly. “I think you will have to excuse me one moment.”

I struggle up from the sofa.

“Of course, if you want to …” He looks at me suggestively. “Freshen up.”

I nod, banana very much to the core of my throat, and rush out of the room down the hall to his ultra-luxe bathroom.

The door is barely closed before the wave of winey bananas spurts out, like missiles hitting every surface available. Hitting the toilet. Hitting the bidet. Hitting the white marble spa bath. It’s as if someone has set off vomit sprinklers from the ceiling.

Cherries from the bourbon cocktails, lime from the Long Island, mushrooms from my pizza before I left; my stomach is emptying out across Mark’s lavish bathroom. Oh God, it’s everywhere. A yellowy red tsunami has hit the bathroom. In my hair, on my top! Ahhh! On the shower curtain! And the shower mat! Frantically I grab a towel, but even they look like they were purchased in Harrods.

I rub down the shower curtain and stop in dismay. The stains have only rubbed deeper into the pattern. This guy is going to strangle me when he sees his bathroom or, even worse, make me pay for the damage.

What am I going to do? This is past the point of no return.

I can’t go back to him; I can’t own up to destroying his entire bathroom with vomit. There is only one logical plan of action.

As quietly as I can, I open the bathroom door and creep down the hallway. The front door is only metres away. One step at a time, trying not to breathe, I push forward towards the door. Slowly I turn the wooden latch and creep out into the night.

The huge door slams behind me. Gasping, I sprint down the street until I am sure I’m far enough away he can’t find me.

Panting, I drop down to the ground to catch my breath.

I can’t believe it. I’ve committed a sick-and-run.