Chapter 18

Part of the joy of writing Curves has been how easy the chapters have flowed.  It takes approximately 3-4 hours to complete a chapter, but the minutes pass like no time at all, because I love the story and I love Evi - she's a part of my soul.

This chapter has taken about three times the normal amount of time to finish.  I've been back and forth so many times, called my good friends for opinions, weighed the options, read the comments.  It's done now, but I don't feel the same sense of satisfaction as I normally do.

That really comes back to the amount of negativity in the comments for the previous chapter.  I understand that my books are like Rorschach picture - people react to the story based on their own experiences and life journey.  Having said that, when this book is written in a spirit of acceptance and non-judgement, it's bitterly disappointing to see people calling Evianna a sl*t or a h0, simply because she's decided to have sex.

For those that have made their feelings very clear, I hope you'll read on with your heart a little more open, and realise that a woman who chooses to sleep with a man isn't necessarily evil.  And, as my nana used to say, "If you can't say anything nice..."

I'd never felt like more of a naughty teenager than I did in front of Heather that afternoon in my bathroom. "You're going to have sex with him?" Her voice was terse, but I could hear her trying to restrain what she was really thinking.

"Yup. I decided today. He's coming to take me to dinner and then I'll bring him back here afterwards." I held up two different earrings in front of my lobes, trying to decide if the black pearl studs suited better than the dangly silver strands. "I'm single, he's single, there's attraction there, and I'm finally in a place where I'm down to get naked. So, yeah, why not?"

I settled on the pearls, which complimented my LBD with the asymmetrical sweep. Beneath my dress, my legs were shaved and my Triumph lace underwear was holding me flawlessly. Smoothing my poker-straight hair, I beamed at my reflection, then smiled over at Heather. "How do I look?"

"Spectacular."

The straight line of her lips told me she had more to say. "Okay, out with it! What?"

"Nothing. I'm not your mum, and you're a grown woman."

Despite her blasé words, I had to know what she was thinking. "Heather. Seriously, just say what you need to say."

"Nope."

"Look, I thought this was what you wanted!" I turned and leaned against the sink, eying her as she lay in the dry bathtub in her jeans, filing her nails. "You've been pushing me for weeks to love my body and be comfortable in my skin. Now, you're sitting there giving me the cold shoulder because I'm actually ready to sleep with someone?"

"Do you really want to know what I think?"

"I do!" I'd been reliant on Heather's opinion since the day I'd met her. I didn't agree with everything she proposed, but I always wanted to hear it.

"I think there's rarely such a thing as casual sex. One party is always more invested that the other. I think sex is special, and worth having with the right people, and you think that too, from everything you've told me. I also think you're not as single as you're pretending to be. And lastly, I think you need to call Matt before you do anything."

I sputtered like water drops on a hot hair iron. "Call Matt? He's not my boyfriend, Heather. It's so complicated, I don't even know what to call it. Yeah, we both have feelings, but it hasn't gone anywhere. Besides, I gave him permission to go off and do whatever he wanted, even if that was with Taylor; why can't I do the same? And who says that Lightfoot isn't the right person to sleep with? Who says it can't be totally casual?"

She heaved up out of the tub, towering over me, despite my heels. "No one can answer those questions but you. But in my opinion, you need to at least think about the answers before you jump in the sack with this CEO – no matter how much chemistry you guys have together."

She kissed my head like a loving maternal figure, then left me to my swirling emotions.

Frustrated, I turned back to the mirror, swiping on an extra layer of mascara. Heather doesn't know what she's talking about. This is going to be good for me. I should be allowed to feel sexy, and Lightfoot makes me feel sexy. Why call Matt and just muddy the waters?

As I stomped over to my suitcase, I debated hunting for my clutch. I didn't really have anything to carry – lip stain, maybe some mints... my phone? I looked at the black rectangle, silent and still off after more than a week.

My hand hovered over it. It would have been so easy to turn it on, plough through my voicemails and texts, embroil myself in the outside world again. But with my date looming, the desire to keep myself cloistered for at least one more night was winning.

What if Matt has called? whispered a little voice.

What if he hasn't? I retaliated. I'll be ruining all my good work and positive energies for nothing.

Unsure if I was being cowardly or smart, I left both the phone and the clutch in my room as I tripped downstairs to wait for Lightfoot.

***

I had a single glass of sake with dinner, but the pheromones were making me drunk. The tiny Japanese restaurant was literally a hole in the wall, with bamboo panelled walls and dim lighting, but Lightfoot had assured me that their food was as good as the real deal in Japan. As I ate my delicate strips of sesame beef, I didn't doubt it.

"Oh... Oh, that's just so good!"

"Told you." My dinner companion waved chopsticks at me, dapper in a fitted black shirt. "This place is nothing to look at, but you can't beat the food. I've eaten at every five star restaurant in Sydney, and I keep coming back here."

A tiny flower of a waitress tiptoed over. "I take your plate, Mr Lightfoot?"

"Arigato, Tomoko."

She blushed at me as she reached for my empty rice dish. "It's nice to see you with someone, Mr Lightfoot. Not so alone for you to eat."

As she left, I studied him. "You don't bring people here? Or other girls?"

He shrugged and tried to downplay it. "Can't bring clients here. They expect the silver service treatment. And, to be honest, Moore, I don't normally take girls out for dinner."

"Ah, of course. They just fall into bed with you before they've even thought about entrees."

"Ha. No, I just got sick of trying to have long conversations with uninteresting women. Now, I normally meet them for a cocktail. That's plenty."

We'd been chatting for around three hours continuously. Our banter was easy as we'd flowed from one topic to the next. Occasionally, our voices had become raised as I'd challenged him on something, or he'd called me out for being stubborn, but we'd always come back to an amicable course. The way Lightfoot stimulated my brain was just as exciting as the way he stimulated other parts of me. I was loving it.

It was hard to imagine anyone having difficulty conversing with him, so the confession of allowing me to share his sacred dining place caught me off guard. "Well, I'm glad you brought me here." I reached over the table and trailed my nails along the back of his hand.

He grinned at me. "I am too. I'm glad you like it, Moore. Are you sure you wouldn't have preferred somewhere flashier?"

I shook my head. "This place may not be flashy, but it isn't cheap. Quality is about what's on the inside. I don't need white linen napkins or scented candles to convince me my food tastes awesome."

"You're my kind of woman, Evi." Lightfoot lifted his glass and I tapped mine against it. "Can I tempt you with dessert?"

"No, thanks. I had something even sweeter in mind."

He paid for the meal and the cab, and we entered my loft. Secured inside my own space, I was confident and ready to take things to the next level. In this miniscule kitchen, I brewed us both an espresso using a shiny machine with more buttons than an aeroplane cockpit. "Shall we take these up to my room?"

"Lead the way."

I steered him up the stairs to little bedroom, where a small couch was angled to take in the evening view of the harbour, the bridge illuminated like a skeleton. Inside, we were lit from four angles by soft lamps, which leant everything a very relaxed feeling.

A USB plugged into a stereo system began to softly play my favourite new album from Alt-J, and I snuggled down on the couch, releasing my feet from their heeled prison. "Care to join me?"

Lightfoot sat just slightly down from me, effortlessly at ease as he removed his own shoes and sipped from his coffee. "I like your style, Moore. You aren't fazed by anything, are you?"

A hysterical giggle tried to burst forth like a snot bubble. "That definitely hasn't been true in the past, but I do know that I'm pretty comfortable in my own skin right now. It feels good to be in a headspace where not much can throw you."

"Amen." He set his coffee aside, pulling my feet into his lap and massaging my soles.

My eyes almost immediately rolled back into my head and I became completely boneless. "Oh... Oh!"

"Good? Or do you want me to stop?" There was a glint in his pale eyes, a hint of boyish mischief which complemented the smoothness of his moves.

"Don't you dare stop." Lounging further back, I allowed myself to marinade in the decadence of feeling beautiful, drinking excellent coffee after a brilliant meal, and having my feet rubbed by a man who was my counter-part in so many ways.

But my pesky brain kept running an obvious question, and eventually it burst forth.

"So, why is the CEO millionaire with an Everest-sized ego and charisma going spare, who can also perform a dammed fine foot massage..." His fingers twisted my toes one way while rotating my heel the other, and I lost track of my thought. "Mmmm..."

"You want to know why I'm not already twice divorced, supporting a mistress while keeping my new fiancée happy?"

"Something like that."

He considered the question carefully. "I guess, partly choice, partly luck."

"Good luck or bad?"

"A dash of both. Believe it or not, I haven't always been this debonair."

"I don't believe it. I'm sure you popped from the womb, sporting a roughish smile and a lifted eyebrow."

"Sorry to disappoint, then. When I was in uni, I was just the world's most ordinary guy, who didn't date or do anything vaguely interesting. I studied my MBA, got average grades, but when I graduated, I lined up twelve internships over twelve months with everyone from heads of business, to heads of surgery, to heads of state. I learned a stunning singular truth about everyone you'll ever meet."

"What?"

He leaned towards me, as if about to share defence department secrets. "Everybody is making everything up, all the time."

"I don't follow."

"Well, we all assume that everyone knows more than us, right? Like, CEO's are confident leaders who know exactly what's right for the company, and our politicians know something we don't about the best way to steer the country, and our judges are impartial and wise, and our doctors never have doubts. But I've watched these people at work, and they are just that: people.

"They put their pants on one leg at a time. They freeze, or make decisions from emotion, or just pull answers from their asses. The most successful people in any industry are the ones who've learned how to bluff the best, to project total self-assurance, even when the ground shakes beneath them."

I nodded in agreement. Certainly, I'd forced myself to act confident when I'd walked in for the Jump Start audition, even though on the inside, I was screaming, 'Oh god! I shouldn't be here!'

"And eventually, the fake confidence turns genuine. When that happened for me, suddenly everything started flowing; cash, promotions, ladies. After being a sexless wonder in my study days, I was inundated with offers, and I enjoyed myself. I had no intention in being tied down."

"I'll bet you did." I grinned, not judging, just enjoying the image of a younger Lightfoot being pursued by lovely ladies, seeking a ring that wasn't on the table.

He switched to my other foot. "I'm not interested in starting a family or walking down an aisle. After a decade of variety, I've been spoiled. Anyone who lasts longer than a week with me would be unusual."

"Lucky, then."

"Why's that?"

"I'm only around until Friday." It was comforting to know that there were no ongoing expectations with him. I wasn't ready for a relationship either; the only person I'd even consider it with was Matt, and that whole mess was already snarled enough. But a night of freedom and pleasure with someone who wouldn't haunt my mind with dreams of a true love or an entangled future, now that sounded very appealing indeed.

Making the first move, I pulled my feet away, tucking them under my backside and walking forward on my knees. When I reached his lap, I straddled him, allowing my dress to ride up and part at the side split as his hands cupped my waist. I lowered my face to his and kissed him.

It was very different to kissing Matt, who was soft and sweet and beautiful, and whose mouth moulded against mine as if it had been cast from the same design. Lightfoot's lips tasted different, salty and rough. His stubble grazed my chin and his tongue immediately sought entrance, shocking me with its insistence.

It was smouldering. With my new-found confidence, I pushed into him while opening my lips wide, pressing my own tongue into his. I moaned insistently as I scraped my nails through the silk of his shirt, and he responded by working his hands around to my chest, tracing the lines of my bra.

Sensations exploded everywhere as my skin cloaked itself in a sheen of goose bumps. His fingers were the deft digits of a professional, someone who had spent many hours learning how to make a woman shudder. Closing my eyes, I gave myself over to the abandon and sheer wickedness of our heated exchange. I was all in.

It meant when Lightfoot pulled back, I was completely flummoxed. "Yes?" I asked.

"You made me answer, but you haven't told me yours. Why is the utterly gorgeous, out-spoken, intelligent and hilarious TV star Evianna Moore still single?"

All night, I'd been trying unsuccessfully to keep Matt's face from swimming before my eyes. With one question, Lightfoot had brought Matt screaming back into the forefront of my mind yet again. It didn't help that the question was one Matt had already asked, and now, the answer had changed.

"I'm... I don't know. I mean, I kind of have this thing going on with someone else right now, but we're on a break, more or less. I mean, not that we were on-on, but now we're apart, I think. Well, we haven't spoken in a week because I turned my phone off, but we haven't worked out so far, because I wasn't happy with who I was, and now I am mostly, but he kinda has this ex who still likes him, and she has cancer so I didn't want to get in the way if he wanted to get back with her-"

"Evi." Lightfoot stopped my rambling, placing his palms on my cheeks in a calming fashion. "I'm not sure what's happing in your world right now, but I can tell you that I want to have sex with you, so badly it hurts. You already know I'm not looking for a relationship. So, tell me: do you still want to sleep together, or is that just going to make your life harder?"

It honestly could have gone either way from there. I could have leaned back in and used my kiss to convince him that I did want him for the night.

The sex would have been incredible, a perfect fusion of charisma and chemistry. My body was at its most open, and in that state I would have been released from all inhibitions by the simple freedom of being naked with someone who didn't look like a Bonds underwear model.

We would have fallen asleep together, not spooning, but perhaps with our feet intertwined and post-coital smiles on our faces.

And I wouldn't have regretted it, from the standpoint that I knew what I was heading into; no-strings-attached sex. I was a single woman, a fully consenting adult, not a blushing sixteen year old, and I had the right to sleep with whomever I chose - as long as I also accepted the consequences.

Fortunately, as Lightfoot held my face and did the gentlemanly thing by checking in with me one more time, I had the right answer for him and me.

"I do want to sleep with you," I replied slowly, dropping my weight off to the side and sitting back down the other end of the couch. "And I'm an empowered woman. I know that I'm technically single and that I have every right to shag whoever I want, without feeling bad about it. And I know that we'd be amazing under the covers, so there's that..."

Sighing, I backed my choice. "But I'm not going to. Not because I'm nervous about how I look, or I'm feeling oppressed, but because I owe it to myself to talk to this other guy and sort out what's happening between us before starting anything new, no matter how temporary it might be. I have a lot more strength and self-control now, and I'm going to use it wisely."

Lightfoot stuck out his bottom lip in grudging approval. "Look, I can't say that I'm psyched about your decision, but I sure as shit respect it. I know girls who jump into bed with people just to make some other guy jealous. You're a different calibre to those women, Evi. I hope you realise your worth."

"I'm starting to."

"And I hope this other guy realises it too, because if he doesn't realise you're worth fighting for, he's a total tosspot." He stood, pulling uncomfortably at the fly of his pants. "Do me a favour? If it doesn't work out, can we try this again?"

I pushed up and stood beside him. "Tell you what: if it doesn't work out, you can take me to dinner again. Then, we'll talk."

We chatted for a few more minutes, his accepting attitude making the entire debacle way less awkward than it could have been. I walked him out. "See you in the morning, Moore," he said, imbuing his hand shake with underlying meaning.

"Good night, Lightfoot."

I closed the door, feeling oddly charged. I might have been more sexually frustrated than a fifteen year old boy in a lingerie shop, but I was also elated by how sure I felt in myself. I'd made the right choice, and not because of modesty or frigidity or even because of Matt, but because I'd wanted to. It was liberating.

Clearing up the cups and stripping out of my pretty underwear that didn't get any play, I pulled on my favourite pair of PJ pants, the ones that hung comfortably around my groin, gangster-style.

Crawling into bed, my fingers crept back to my phone, wanting to check if my feelings about Matt were right, if he had reached out. But if I saw he'd called, I'd want to ring him, and it was well after eleven. He would have been up since four for work, and I'd probably wake him, leading to a semi-coherent conversation which both of us would probably regret in the morning.

Instead, I silently promised to ring him when I awoke, and tucked the phone under my pillow, curling around in the bed as if I was spooning someone who was almost there.

***

The banging roused me. "Heather..." I grumbled, squinting at the clock with blurry eyes. "'S'not even seven..."

On the staircase, I dared a quick glance at the mirror on the far wall. My hair was still lying relatively flat against my back, and my panda eyes were cute rather than gruesome. Combined with my fuzzy pink PJ's, I didn't look like someone who'd been shagging all night, which was good. Lord help me if I allowed Heather to think that I'd actually slept with Lightfoot; it was way too early for her special brand of guilt.

"Coming!" I called, less than patiently at the still-pounding door. Finally, I reached it, and flung it wide.

Matt stood on the other side. "Evianna. We need to talk."

Did this chapter make you happy?  Or did it make you mad?  Did you remember to click the star and vote?  Do you think you might leave a nice comment to counter-act some of the horrible things said in the previous one?  xxoo Kate