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I scrolled down. What I was looking for was the missing sibling, the first offspring, and then, near the end of the article, I found it. A picture of a young man who looked like an angelic version of Alfie—fair haired, deep blue eyes, open, charming smile. My heart began to pound. I felt as though I were snooping, uncovering something Alfie didn’t want me to see.
“…The Tell Empire was originally intended for Joseph Tell’s eldest son, Charles. Unfortunately, the untimely and tragic death of the 26-year-old now means that the responsibility comes to rest on Joseph Tell’s younger, far less capable son, Alfie.
The younger Tell son, whose name has become synonymous in recent years with scandal and morally reprehensible behaviour, appeared to be a changed man during his press release this morning. His band of compatriots - affectionately named as his ‘Tellers’ - were nowhere to be seen, and neither were the string of scantily clad women who seem to follow him wherever he goes.
He was sombre during his brief speech, confirming that at the tender age of 23, he would be taking the reins as head of the company. It would seem that his days as the head of the notorious Never Tell Club are a thing of the past.
Only time will tell us if he can stand up to the legacy left behind by not only his father, but his brother too. After all, it is no secret that his father had much higher hopes for Charles than his reckless younger son…”
The article went on, but I put my phone down, unable to read any more. I laid back in the lounge chair and closed my eyes, tears pricking at the lids.
Things were starting to make sense.
I had been through difficult times in my life but I hadn’t done it in the public eye. I couldn’t imagine the pressure that Alfie had had to contend with. He’d been the same age I was now. I just about managed to figure out what to have for breakfast, and he’d had to sit at the head of an international empire, having just lost his brother and father, with everyone expecting him to fail. I couldn’t imagine how lonely that had been.
How many of his own dreams and desires had he put aside? He’d wanted adventure and a good time, that’s what he’d said inthe article I’d read weeks ago, but now all that was left was the man sitting upstairs, with a face of stone and a heart even colder, who spent day after day haunted by ghosts and living in their shadows.
But why had he never mentioned a brother? He’d told me about his father, why not Charles? I wanted to know more about how he died, but it felt too invasive to snoop about that. I needed him to confide in me himself.
I rubbed my eyes, feeling overwhelmed. The last time I’d read an article about him, I’d run away, but he hadn’t been mine then. He was now. Not theirs, butmine. And I wasn’t going to leave him like that.
Leaving my phone on the balcony, I returned inside. I climbed the stairs, surprised that I wasn’t nervous. I heard their voices as I walked down the hallway and once again, I let myself in without knocking. Alfie looked up, his face the same haunted expression. Angie looked at Alfie, waiting for him to evict me again, but I cut him off before he got the chance.
“Leave.”
Angie looked at me in shock. “Excuse me?” she spluttered, her eyes darting between me and Alfie.
“You heard what I said. Leave.” I dismissed her, turning my attention back to Alfie. He remained in his seat, his gaze never leaving me.
I looked ridiculous next to the immaculate Angie Carter. She wore Louboutins and I wore only my bare feet. I had nothing and she had everything, and yet it was me he was looking at.
When she realised that she’d been shut out and Alfie wasn’t going to evict me, she calmly collected her bag and coat. She leaned down to kiss Alfie on the cheek but he turned his head slightly and she froze. I almost felt sorry for her. She rose with a faux nonchalance. The look on her face as she passed me wasmeant to kill, but once she was out of the room I didn’t spare her another thought.
Alfie remained silent, a stiff statue in front of me, and for a moment I felt lost. I didn’t have a plan. Beyond giving Angie the boot I had no idea what I was going to do. So I followed my instincts.
I crossed the room and rounded his desk, his eyes tracking me the whole time. He turned in his chair to face me and I did the only thing that felt natural. I climbed into his lap, straddling him. I cupped his perfect face, searching for the Alfie that I knew was in there, behind the mask he slipped on to deal with the rest of his life, the life that he’d never wanted, the life that suffocated him.
“Come back to me.” I stroked his cheek with the back of my fingers, using the lightest of touches and waiting for him to respond. But he didn’t. He watched me guardedly, so unlike his usual self. Once again, I did the only thing that felt natural. I leaned down and kissed him softly, trying to express everything I felt in that small gesture. He responded—only slightly, but he was there. I pulled back and found his eyes warmer than before.
“Come back to me,” I whispered again, though it sounded more like a plea this time. “Please.” I pressed my forehead to his, willing him back into life. If the mask was tangible I would rip it right off him, but all I could do was hold him, coax him back to me. The article had given me some insight, but there were still secrets buried deep within him. Right now, I didn’t care about knowing them, I just wanted him back.
I almost whimpered with relief when I felt his hands on my waist, his touch light at first, caressing me. I gasped when he gripped me, lifted me, and laid me out on his desk. He loomed over me, his hands either side of me. I reached up and cupped his cheek.
“Hey.” I smiled. He was here. He’d come back to me. In a move so tender I couldn’t believe I’d really seen it, he nuzzled my hand, pressing his cheek into my palm, taking comfort from my touch. He sighed, his brows knitting together, his eyes shut tight as if he was in pain.
“Alfie.” His eyes opened, looking at me warily as if I might demand something of him like everything else in his life did. “Just kiss me.” He sighed again, the tension leaving his body in a whoosh. His shoulders relaxed, and he leaned down, pressing his full weight onto me. His lips found mine and I welcomed him with everything I had, allowing his tongue into my mouth, encasing him with my arms. I felt between us and undid his trousers, guiding him to my opening. Then my legs wrapped around his hips, encouraging him to move.
He began slowly, in small shallow thrusts. I groaned my approval as he picked up the pace. He buried his face in my neck and took me. I returned the favour, wrapping my hands in his hair and allowing myself, in all ways, to be taken. I was his. There was no help for me now.
Thirty-Eight
Iawoke on Wednesday morning, sore and exhausted. Alfie and I had slept in short bursts between bouts of passion. I’d pass out, spent and replete, only to be woken again by Alfie needing to seek solace in my body. By the time dawn came, I felt like I was going mad, like there must be something wrong with us that we couldn’t stop touching, that I couldn’t get enough of having him inside me.
Alfie’s alarm went off but he didn’t wake, so I leaned across him and switched it off. He reached for me in his sleep and pulled me into his arms. I nudged him and he sighed softly, his arms tightening and, as he’d done so many times during the night, he rolled onto me, spreading my legs with his thighs, sliding gently inside me. I bit my lip and moaned at the feel of him pressing against my sore flesh. He stilled, his nose pressed in my hair, his arms holding me so tightly. His grip could be so strong sometimes, I couldn’t help but notice my fragility in comparison to his strength. He could squeeze the life out of me if he wanted to.
Alfie made love to me in so many different ways. There were times when the focus was solely on my pleasure, where he delayed gratification to the point where it tortured him. Othertimes he was like a wild animal, taking me so hard I felt like I was being pushed into a state of being where I had no existence outside of that bed, no purpose except to give him my body to sate his needs. Other times, like this one, he was just still. Holding me in his arms wasn’t enough. He had to be inside me and, in those moments, I had to wonder at the psychology behind it. He couldn’t just hold me, he had to possess me too.
He began to move, lazily, fucking himself awake. He came almost in silence and I relished the feeling of his seed inside me. I held him as he caught his breath, contenting myself with tracing light patterns along the planes of his back.