Page 36 of In the Frame

I definitely don’t want to touch him while he sleeps. Neither for consent reasons to shake his shoulder, nor God knows if he has catlike ninja reflexes and might do who knows what in response to a virtual stranger shaking him awake. Like what if he’s a black belt and launches me through the air?

“Florian?” I try again, louder.

This time, he shifts slightly, a sleepy sigh escaping him. His eyes slide open, registering the sight of me as I hover just inside the door. I lean back against it and give an apologetic half smile. “Sorry. It’s just getting on in the afternoon, and it’s time to get ready for the ceremony.”

“Right.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, rubbing gingerly around them, then sitting up. The sheet falls down to reveal his well-toned chest and forearms, a scattering of light freckles across the top of his shoulders. He catches me trying—and failing—at gawping and meets my gaze evenly. “Thank you for letting me sleep. I didn’t mean to put you out.”

“You didn’t. It’s no problem. Like I said, I had stuff to go take care of.” I shrug, safely leaning against the door, hands in my jeans pockets. Best to keep them there, from everything from reflexive glass picking like the other night to who knows what other betrayal they could get up to. I feign a casualness that my thundering heart does its best to give away, and how does he not hear it from there? “I totally let strangers sleep in my bed all the time.”

“Tart.”

“You don’t know the half of it, I’m afraid.” Which is true because in uni, I was a bit of a tart, or at least had the occasional tart-like tendencies with my commitment to strings-free fun. After my last boyfriend, my first real love, it was way too daunting to try to replicate that again, so I went the other way. Not full-bore hedonism, but a reasonable facsimile at times. Hedonism-light. I mean, I was in art school. We had fun.

But I’ve never had a millionaire in my bed before. Not even a half millionaire. Especially not one that looks like a billion dollars.

Florian slides out of bed in an elegant movement (my God, he was in my bed with only his boxer briefs on), gorgeous and appealing and oh fuck. There’s way too much skin.

“I… should…” That’s the end of my debatably coherent speech. My cock shows signs of stirring, and the rush of blood from my brain to my new hard-on is an instant response. Mortified, I shift slightly so he hopefully won’t notice.

It’s hard to say if he does. For a moment, Florian looks at me, shrugs, and carries on with getting dressed again. My mouth’s gone dry, and it’s unfortunate I can’t look away, a letch like me watching him go through the quiet ritual of dressing. A man entirely comfortable in his own skin, even with an audience. Clearly, he’s used to the effect he has on others. Fair. Wisely, helped with the lack of oxygen supply to my brain, I keep from talking.

Because who knows what else I would say. Or worse, do. Pressing my lips together, I continue to watch.

Florian slips into his suit trousers one long leg at a time, into his pristine white shirt. Right down to fastening to the gold cufflinks on the French cuffs, it’s a fascinating routine that I can’t stop watching, wondering how it’s possible to move so easily in the world with his ready confidence. In his place, I’d be a lot more self-conscious.

I probably wouldn’t have dared sleep in a stranger’s bed. Though, thinking about it, he’s already had a shower in my flat the first night we met, so we’re not in the typical stranger-strangee relationship. Plus, there’s that little matter of the carnal kiss downstairs a few hours ago that I swear I dreamed, can still feel the taste of him lingering on my tongue. Something which neither one of us has mentioned since or dared hint at because who knows what might happen next.

Chapter Nineteen

Aside from the casual tart comment, we’ve played this very cool. Which isn’t the helpful inspiration my cock needs right now to be decidedly uncool. Instead, I try to think of unsexy things, like rubbish heaps and queues and public transport delays. Taxes. Or being technically homeless in London because I don’t even have a flat share.

He’s bathed in sunlight when he turns finally to me, buttoning his shirt.

I swallow hard. And again, I shift awkwardly, trying to casually drape my arms in a way as if I’m not drawing attention to my erection. “Florian?”

“Yes?”

“What exactly is the rule book for fake partners? I don’t think we’ve said.” Bold move, Matty. That’s not helping things below the belt.

“Ah. Like the parameters?”

“I guess you can put it like that, yeah. Love parameters.”

“The rules are whatever we find mutually satisfactory and agreeable.”

“Good talk. I like all my fake partnering arrangements to meet a minimum satisfactory standard.”

“And here I thought I was the only fake partner you had.” Florian arches a dark eyebrow at me. He works on his tie without looking at what he’s doing, his fingers obviously practiced at the routine. While Florian looks at me, he does something funny to my insides.

“You are. Um, currently.”

“Good. I am only into ethical fake partnering. And I insist on being the only one.”

“I’m glad you have your standards. Hate for you to get mixed up in something dodgy.” Which is true enough. “And duly noted.”

“Rule 1: there can only be one fake partner. There’s a noncompete clause, for the official record.” Florian slips into his suit jacket. Fully, safely clothed. Still cutting a remarkable figure. Though the image of him sitting undressed in my bed is going to be imprinted forever in my brain. Perfect wankable material for another time. “Fewer complications.”

“Okay.” There’s hardly a queue of men waiting to date me, so that’s easy. I’m not about to go hunting for others either. “Done.”