Page 9 of Filthy Mouth (Obsessive Age Gap #2)

Poppy

I dragged my wheeled samples case up the steps. There was nothing worse than a vague client. Ella McPhee might be difficult if she couldn't narrow her specifications to some basic colour schemes. If I got a good look at her house, then perhaps I could guide her.

Once I ’ d rung the bell, I took a moment to plaster on my winsome smile.

It was forced because I ’ d rather relax in my bath with a glass of Prosecco.

But since this was booked as a prospective high-end project, I ’ d made the time even though she hadn ’ t been happy that it took me eight days to book her in.

The door opened to bare feet. Not petite ladylike feet. I glanced up past the charcoal trousers and black shirt to see Benedict Lancaster ’ s smug face—the man who ’ d been on my mind for the past two weeks.

My smile froze in place.

“ Ella, I take it,” I said sarcastically as he bent down to take my case hostage. “ Have you been diagnosed as a pathological liar?”

“ Why, Ms Blythe, do you usually greet all your clients in this manner?” he asked, waving me in.

“ I ’ m not setting foot in your house if you're wasting my time,” I said, clenching my jaw.

He raised his hands in the air. “ I do solemnly swear this is a legitimate project for an entire floor of my home.”

I eyed him suspiciously, but the home would have at least five or six floors if this Victorian townhouse had a basement.

“ I appreciate that time is money, so do come in,” he said before he slipped up.

His eyes locked onto my lips.

I swallowed, recalling the ache. Still, I stepped inside, taking the handle for my case and wheeling it across the dark mahogany floorboards. I knew that I ’ d live to regret this. The door slammed shut behind me, and the brass letterbox rattled. This was a conscious choice I made.

The next move was his.

“ I ’ ll take this,” he said, brushing his hand over mine.

I slipped my hand away and followed him until we reached the elevator doors. It wasn't the first time I ’ d encountered an elevator in a private home, but the small space was daunting when he took most of it.

“ How many floors does the property have?” I asked politely as if I hadn ’ t pretended to be a prostitute the first time we met.

“ The property has six floors with a total of 15845 Square feet. I have the floor plans in the library.”

Damn. That was pretty impressive. I wondered if he lived here alone. There was no mention of a family or a current girlfriend on the internet or social media.

The doors pinged open, jolting me back to the Canary Wharf apartment. I carefully wiped the perspiration above my upper lip.

One aspect of Benedict that I could admire was that he didn't come from old money. He made shrewd choices and built his property development business from scratch. I did ponder his past marriages, but there wasn't much information online about his ex-wives.

“ I take it that it ’ s a listed building?” I asked, admiring the decor as we walked through the light, airy hallway.

I peered into the drawing room, which was painted in a white mint shade. However, the dark green fireplace and window panels were a striking contrast. This was worlds apart from the tasteless apartment he ’ d taken me to. If the rest of his home was like this, the man had amazing taste.

He cleared his throat, and I saw him leaning against a doorway with a smile.

Damn it. He ’ d discovered my kryptonite.

I smiled politely and closed the gap between us.

When I stepped into the library, I saw the modified large panelled windows, which kept the outer aesthetic while allowing natural light in.

I paused at the small spiral staircase that led to more bookshelves.

The room had enough space for the leather couch set, table, and a separate office desk.

The shade of the wood was warm, creating a softness to the room.

When I glanced at the chandelier, I almost shook my head. The man loved his chandeliers.

He rolled my sample case to the couch and sat. I chose my seat, which was a little distance from him. It didn ’ t stop his cologne or body wash from assaulting my senses. I glanced at the paper on the table—plans for his house. Perhaps he was serious about a renovation after all.

I unfolded the floor plans and spread them across the table. My eyes widened when I saw seven floors. The basement was a spa, a lower ground floor, a raised ground level and four floors on top.

“ Which floor are you considering renovating?” I wondered if nine bathrooms and five separate toilets were overkill for a seven-bedroom house.

“ The top floor,” he said, pointing to it.

Was he trying to seduce me with his scent?

I leaned away from him and discreetly covered my nose.

“ Do you have a vision or a colour plan? Ella was very vague.”

“ I didn ’ t give my assistant any details,” he said, draping his hand over the back of the couch. “ And I do have many visions.”

I opened my case and pulled out my tablet, ready to take notes.

“ I want a waterproof red room with an open wet room at the back.”

My stylus pen remained frozen, but he didn ’ t retract his statement.

I knew what a red room was. That wasn ’ t the problem. The problem was all the filthy visions in my mind.

“ A sex room?” I asked blankly.

“ A waterproof sex room,” he corrected.

“ You mean the furniture needs to be waterproof?”

“ Yes. I saw a few designs, but most looked extremely tacky.”

“ I ’ ve never designed a red room before,” I said, though it would be challenging. I ’ d need to source suitable materials for the furniture or have them custom-made. This was a new type of project that would require more research.

“ Colours?”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, drawing my eyes to his crotch. I averted them until he passed me his phone. The photo looked AI-generated, but the two colours were black and a deep crimson. The fixtures were wall lights and, of course, a black chandelier.

“ I want it light and dark, through the lighting and natural light.”

I glanced at the floor plan again and saw the windows. Heavy drapes would block all the light.

“ I want kneeling stocks,” he said.

I cleared my throat before replying.

“ I ’ m unfamiliar with BDSM furniture.”

He took his phone and swiped through his photos before handing it to me.

It was exactly what I suspected. The stocks had a red pad on the floor to kneel, attached to a black wooden frame. The stocks would hold the head and hands in place.

“ I want the furniture to match the same shade I choose for the paint. I’ve got an idea, but I wanted to run it by you.”

“ It ’ s likely that the furniture would need to be custom-made for the shade you end up choosing and the waterproof element. I would need to look into many aspects of this project.”

I forced myself not to think about the waterproof element. Yet the thought crept up regardless. How wet did he expect sex to get?

“ You ’ d take the project?”

“ I don ’ t come cheap. A job is a job,” I said with a shrug, handing him his phone back.

“ Do you want the bed to be black? The chains for the handcuffs are retractable or attached to the wooden panel, like the picture?”

“ My mind ’ s open to all options,” he said, watching me. “ I want it aesthetically pleasing without any part of the room becoming an eyesore.”

“ Send me all the photos you have,” I said, reaching into my case to pull out the samples I had for red.

I passed him the sample book, and he flicked through it slowly, brushing his thumb over each swatch as if he were feeling more than just the texture. When his eyes lifted to mine after pausing on one, it felt like he ’ d just made a choice about more than colour.

“ I have an architect on board, and I ’ m waiting on consent approval to adjust the walls,” he said, still idly turning pages.

“ Do you know how long the process will take?”

“ My request has priority,” he replied, closing the book and handing it back, his fingers lingering against mine for a beat too long.

He ’ d chosen a deep crimson close to the picture he ’ d shown me earlier. The fact he could fast-track his request didn ’ t surprise me—it gave me time to line up suppliers before the wall came down, though something told me I ’ d be the one dismantled before this project was finished.

“ The sample you chose isn ’ t final, but it gives me enough to work on. Once the wall comes down, you may want to revisit the requirements.”

He looked up from his phone, gaze locking on me, the corner of his mouth tipping in a slow, knowing smile. “ How much will you cost me this time?”

“ A hundred times more.”

The size of the floor was extensive, and it was a specialist job.

His eyes dipped to my mouth, lingered, then rose again. “ Are you worth it?”

“ Were you disappointed last time?”

“ No.” His voice was low, almost intimate. “ You were worth every penny.”

My palms dampened when his eyes darkened, heat pooling low in my stomach.

“ Why don ’ t you show me the floor?” I said quickly, clutching the sample book to my chest like a shield and rising to my feet.

“ As soon as the structure is complete, I want the room finished within four weeks. I ’ ll pay a premium for you to oversee it all,” he said, following me up.

And there it was—the sting.

Fuck it. I could handle Benedict Owen Lancaster.