“It’s okay, James,” the man—George, I guessed—on the landing said to the butler, and my father followed him up the stairs. Putting my hands in my pockets, I moved to the wall in the hallway and the pictures that hung there, keeping the butler in my peripheral. I cleaned my glasses on my shirt, rubbing the rain from the lenses so I could bloody see. When I put them back on, I was in front of a picture of a girl about my age. She had dark hair and dark eyes and olive skin. I passed pictures of a brunette woman and George.
Done browsing, I sat on the ornate red sofa in the foyer and looked around the house. Money. Whoever this George prick was, he had a fuck-ton of money.
My eyes moved from the posh artwork and sculptures and went back to the girl in the picture. Then I didn’t look away. Just as I wondered who she was, the stairs creaked. My eyes snapped up.
Brown hair.
Brown eyes.
Long legs.
Olive skin.
The girl from the picture froze on the stairs, her eyes widening when she saw me. My eyes dropped to her clothes. She was wearing pyjamas. The white top was sleeveless, and the bottoms were shorts with pink polka dots all over them. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders.
I watched silently as she searched around the foyer, her cheeks blazing red. She came further down the stairs until she was stood on the black-and-white tiled floor of the hallway. “W-who are you?” Her posh accent sailed into my ears. A proper Chelsea girl. No doubt brought up with a silver spoon in her mouth. And what a fucking mouth she had. Full, dark pink lips that seemed to permanently pout. Eric, one of my best friends, called those cock-sucking lips.
In this bird’s case, I had to agree.
She folded her arms across her chest but edged closer. “Who are you?” she asked again.
I leaned back against the couch. “Arthur.”
“Arthur,” she echoed and came closer again. She was only a few feet away. Her skin was lightly tanned and smooth, and her shorts showed off her perfect thighs. Posh birds never really did it for me. But by the twitch of my cock, this one seemed to be the exception. “Arthur …” she said again, her posh accent wrapping around my name. Suddenly, the sound of raised voices came from upstairs. Her head whipped in that direction.
“Daddy? That’s Daddy’s voice.” She faced me, panicked. “Who’s up there with him?”
“My old man.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Business.”
She frowned, then said, “You don’t give much away, do you?”
“What’s your name?” I asked, ignoring her question.
“Cheska.”
“Cheska … ?”
“Cheska Harlow-Wright.” She tilted up her chin—she was proud of her name. My eyes found a picture I’d seen on the wall, one in front of a factory, “Harlow” written on the signage.
All the wealth suddenly made sense.
“Harlow Biscuits.” I suddenly knew how they could afford to live in a house like this in the best postcode in Chelsea. There wasn’t a home in all of England that wouldn’t have had a pack of their biscuits in the cupboard to dunk into cups of tea.
“Yes.” She followed my gaze. The picture on the wall was old. An elderly geezer was stood outside the biscuit factory. There was a younger man there too, and a little girl, no more than about four years old, dressed in a bonnet and a red coat. “My mum,” she said and moved to the picture. She pointed to the little girl. “When she was little, with my granddad and great-granddad.”
I didn’t look at the picture. I was too busy looking at her. Cheska the Chelsea girl. “Where is she now?”
Cheska’s face fell. When she met my eyes, hers were shining. “She died two years ago.” My chest twinged at the sadness in her voice, but I kept my expression straight. My dad taught me from a young age not to show any emotion. To be neutral at all times. To not let any fucker get a read on me. To always be the grey man in the room.
Cheska cautiously sat down beside me. She smelled of roses. When she looked at me, I saw her eyes weren’t as dark as I’d thought. They looked green at times, when her head caught the light at a certain angle. She folded her arms over her chest. Her tits were on the small side, but on her, it didn’t matter.
“Is your mum at home?” she asked.
“She’s dead,” I said plainly and glanced to the stairs, then through a set of glass doors to another room where the butler was busying himself cleaning. The raised voices had stopped.
I wondered what Dad had on Cheska’s old man. Or what he’d done to deserve my dad’s personal attention. My head snapped to the side when I felt a hand on mine. I moved in a flash and gripped Cheska’s wrist instinctively, holding it in the air. She gasped, eyes like fucking saucers, and I slowly released her wrist. Cheska’s eyes were still huge as she rubbed her skin.
“I just wanted to say sorry,” she said. “About your mum.” My cheek twitched. I schooled my features and straightened the collar on my coat. “I know what it’s like, to be without them,” she whispered. Her bottom lip trembled. “How lonely it can be.”
I stared at her, chasing away the stabbing sensation in my stomach her words caused. Chelsea Girl had long black lashes that kissed her cheeks when she blinked and freckles scattered over the bridge of her nose. A single small beauty mark sat above her upper lip.
I wanted to taste it on my tongue.
Cheska’s breathing came faster, and I saw her nipples harden under her pyjama vest. I smirked as she quickly folded her arms over her tits again. That blush was back on her cheeks. Chelsea Girl was definitely innocent. She looked around my age. But unlike my East End gangster arse, who’d been sucked and fucked the minute I could come, she was still untouched.
As my eyes slid down Chelsea Girl’s body, I knew she’d look even better on her knees. Cheska’s face blazed like she could read my thoughts.
The sound of a door opening came from upstairs, tearing Cheska’s attention from me. I gave her one last look. No doubt this would be the only time I ever saw her. We didn’t exactly mix in the same circles. She no doubt went to some rich-as-shit girls’ school.
Hushed voices came closer. Dad and Cheska’s old man appeared on the landing and walked down the stairs. Cheska’s dad’s eyes widened when he saw her beside me on the couch, wearing next to nothing. “Cheska. What are you doing up? Get back to bed. It’s late.”
Cheska jumped to her feet, obeying Daddy’s command. “I needed a drink and saw Arthur here.” She flicked a nervous glance to me. “We … we were just talking.”
“Get to bloody bed!” her dad shouted again, and Cheska ran, hurrying for the stairs.
Her old man was a dick.
“Night, Cheska,” I said loudly. Her dad’s face snapped to me and reddened in anger. “It was nice getting to know you.” Cheska turned to me, stopping dead on the stairs. I saw her lips twitch and a smile pull on her stunning face.
“Mr Adley, James will see you out,” her dad said, gesturing to the butler, who had appeared from the other room. I stared for a few more seconds at Cheska, then met her dad’s furious gaze.
“Mr Adley,” the butler said. “And Master Adley. This way, please.”