of pleasure, some so commonplace as to be unremarkable to anyone but him. It wasn’t unusual to find himself in bed or the bath with a beautiful woman, but none of them had tried to make him laugh by singing badly, or lay so tenderly in his arms to sleep. And none so hot, so challenging, so gut-wrenchingly pure; he knew it would be a long time until he forgot Darcy Campbell and forgave himself the sin of hurting her.
12. Real World
“If you make a mistake and do not correct it, this is called a mistake.” — Confucius
Darcy needed a long shower to get her act together. It was a good thing the interview wasn’t till 10am. Her whole body felt gloriously used. She’d known she’d wake up alone. Tara wasn’t a poignant goodbye type of guy. Still, she’d gone into the dining room with a sense of trepidation. Her Shangri-La fantasy would taste sour if he’d left a soppy note making promises they both knew wouldn’t be kept.
No note. But a lovely breakfast spread—for one.
She watched CNN and ate strawberries and yoghurt. She drank two big milky coffees and tried to review her notes one last time. But images from the weekend kept working their way into her head.
She couldn’t look at the baby grand without remembering him sitting her on the closed lid and taking the seat. She’d asked if he played. And he’d answered by laying her down so her feet were on the keys and then playing her like a virtuoso.
A breeze through the open balcony door lifted a photo of tall, dark, dashing and probably myopic, given the glasses, Will Parker, and floated it to the floor. Even the plush pile could make her blush. There was barely a surface in the suite they hadn’t used, despite it being equipped with the biggest bed in Darcy’s known world.
The reason the balcony door was open was he’d taken her against the railing with the sultry heat of the night cloaking their nakedness. She hoped. Not that it mattered. She was a long way from home and anyone who knew her. She could tie this weekend up in a box, stick a label on it called ‘extraordinary’ and file it away till it got dusty and lost its attraction.
She wondered how long that would take. She’d just had an experience that could pervert a girl’s expectations of romance for good.
To say Tara was an expert lover was like saying Gerry Ives liked to ‘do lunch’. It was a statement of the obvious. But Tara was more than that. He was a complex, accomplished man.
He was also guarded, controlling, aggressive and closely wound and instead of that being a turn-off, it’d been a challenge. She might not have won, but she knew she’d gotten to him.
She knew it the moment he’d closed his eyes, let her call the shots and shouted his pleasure. She’d owned him this weekend just as much as he’d owned her.
This morning she felt sore and sleep deprived, but powerful too. He’d thought she wasn’t strong enough, but she proved she could match him.
The only thing that worried her was his lies. He simply had to know her name. Though he’d been collected enough not to use it. One stuttered ‘darling’ was the closest he’d come to betraying himself.
And she was damn sure he’d been deliberately vague about his business. Probably a lot more besides, but he’d been truthful as well. She’d wanted to cry when he told her about the big picture tattoo on his back. It was like an Albert Namatjira painting. All sweeping scope and earthy colours. It must have taken a talented tattooist months to complete. But when she’d looked through the artistry and understood he’d chosen to glamorise his home town, commemorating his survival and escape from it, she couldn’t help but be affected.
The tattoo showed a dusty landscape, towering gums and a house made to look like a square container. She’d traced it. It was curious. Until it struck her what it was. A shipping container. For a time, he’d lived in a shipping container dumped in the bush. Without running water or
12. Real World
“If you make a mistake and do not correct it, this is called a mistake.” — Confucius
Darcy needed a long shower to get her act together. It was a good thing the interview wasn’t till 10am. Her whole body felt gloriously used. She’d known she’d wake up alone. Tara wasn’t a poignant goodbye type of guy. Still, she’d gone into the dining room with a sense of trepidation. Her Shangri-La fantasy would taste sour if he’d left a soppy note making promises they both knew wouldn’t be kept.
No note. But a lovely breakfast spread—for one.
She watched CNN and ate strawberries and yoghurt. She drank two big milky coffees and tried to review her notes one last time. But images from the weekend kept working their way into her head.
She couldn’t look at the baby grand without remembering him sitting her on the closed lid and taking the seat. She’d asked if he played. And he’d answered by laying her down so her feet were on the keys and then playing her like a virtuoso.
A breeze through the open balcony door lifted a photo of tall, dark, dashing and probably myopic, given the glasses, Will Parker, and floated it to the floor. Even the plush pile could make her blush. There was barely a surface in the suite they hadn’t used, despite it being equipped with the biggest bed in Darcy’s known world.
The reason the balcony door was open was he’d taken her against the railing with the sultry heat of the night cloaking their nakedness. She hoped. Not that it mattered. She was a long way from home and anyone who knew her. She could tie this weekend up in a box, stick a label on it called ‘extraordinary’ and file it away till it got dusty and lost its attraction.
She wondered how long that would take. She’d just had an experience that could pervert a girl’s expectations of romance for good.
To say Tara was an expert lover was like saying Gerry Ives liked to ‘do lunch’. It was a statement of the obvious. But Tara was more than that. He was a complex, accomplished man.
He was also guarded, controlling, aggressive and closely wound and instead of that being a turn-off, it’d been a challenge. She might not have won, but she knew she’d gotten to him.
She knew it the moment he’d closed his eyes, let her call the shots and shouted his pleasure. She’d owned him this weekend just as much as he’d owned her.
This morning she felt sore and sleep deprived, but powerful too. He’d thought she wasn’t strong enough, but she proved she could match him.
The only thing that worried her was his lies. He simply had to know her name. Though he’d been collected enough not to use it. One stuttered ‘darling’ was the closest he’d come to betraying himself.
And she was damn sure he’d been deliberately vague about his business. Probably a lot more besides, but he’d been truthful as well. She’d wanted to cry when he told her about the big picture tattoo on his back. It was like an Albert Namatjira painting. All sweeping scope and earthy colours. It must have taken a talented tattooist months to complete. But when she’d looked through the artistry and understood he’d chosen to glamorise his home town, commemorating his survival and escape from it, she couldn’t help but be affected.
The tattoo showed a dusty landscape, towering gums and a house made to look like a square container. She’d traced it. It was curious. Until it struck her what it was. A shipping container. For a time, he’d lived in a shipping container dumped in the bush. Without running water or
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