2016
Since Ryan left me, with the enticing vow of later sparkling in his eyes, I've been extremely busy getting myself ready.
I've de-fuzzed and excessively moisturised pretty much every part of my body, and now I'm surveying the contents of my underwear drawer to decide what to wear in case I'm getting lucky.
This is when I realise for sure that I'd always harboured the tiniest bit of hope that I'd reach this point with Ryan.
Because otherwise I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have bought that pretty deep purple balconette bra with matching knickers when I went on that last shopping spree in Glasgow. I'd actually forgotten I'd even bought them.
Oh, and I may also have bought a sexy little slip dress in a paler purple shade.
And there might be a box of Durex in there too.
Yep, it seems I had wanted to be prepared. What can I say, I used to be a Girl Guide. Although I'm fairly sure the "be prepared" motto refers to making sure one always has, say, a compass, on them as opposed to a . . . condom. To be fair though, I wasn't actually a Guide for very long and it was quite a while ago ago - maybe the rules have changed?
For the first time in a long time though, I'm pretty delighted with past Iona's actions. I snip the price tags off the underwear and put it on, posing in front of the mirror. It looks good. I actually feel confident in my own skin today. It's nice. Empowering. I add the slip, then cover myself up with my fluffy dressing gown. Ryan will have no idea what lies underneath. My whole body tingles in anticipation at the thought.
I actually still have some time to spare so I log into Spotify and pull up a 90s playlist, choosing the shuffle option. It seems fitting that whatever happens tonight is accompanied by a 90s soundtrack, given that was the last time me and Ryan were in harmony like this. "Lovefool" by The Cardigans blasts out of my laptop.
That song, in particular, seems appropriate.
I sit in the centre of my freshly made bed, and chew on my bottom lip anxiously as I wait for him. The minutes stretch unbearably. And the longer they extend, the more nervous I get.
By the time there's a knock at my door, I'm pretty sure I'm close to a panic attack and "Friday I'm In Love" is playing. Which, once again, seems apt, given it's Friday and I am.
(Honestly, Ryan wasn't wrong . . . Who is writing my life???)
I open the door with a modicum more decorum than I did a few nights before when I thought he was a potential serial killer, so Ryan doesn't get a fright this time. But I can see he looks nervous too. He's still wearing his smart work clothes (remember that shirt that matches his eye colour exactly? Sigh.) which tells me he needed to come to me as soon as he could, and that just makes me want him even more.
"Hey," he says, running a hand through his hair and inadvertently mussing it up. His cheekbones have pinkened adorably. "Sorry I'm a bit later than planned; turns out I had a bit more to say to Martin than I thought."
Oh dear.
He grazes a kiss against my cheek, setting my flesh on fire, and I step to the side to let him in. "What happened?" I ask, almost glad to have a temporary distraction from whatever is about to take place. To calm my racing heart down even a little.
Even if it's Martin who is the distraction. Urgh.
Ryan shrugs nonchalantly. "I told him I knew that he'd fucked things up between us at prom, and about the lies he'd told. Obviously, he tried to deny it and twist things."
"Of course." I roll my eyes as I close the door and lean against it. I fear Martin could hold masterclasses in gaslighting, and so I wouldn't have expected him to go down without a fight.
"I said he could stay tonight but I never want him to come near this hotel again." He seems calm but a bit tense. I know he's not really a fan of confrontation, so it's probably unnerved him.
"But are you not worried he might leave you negative reviews everywhere?" I can't help but protest. He shakes his head firmly.
"Fuck that. I honestly couldn't care less at this point." He steps right into me then, tangling his hands into my hair, his eyes blazing, his voice suddenly rough. "His lies cost me you. A bad review is never going to feel anywhere near as bad as losing you did."
Okay, that's fucking hot.
And with that, he bends down and his lips burn against my own, hot and sweet as he breathes a kiss into my mouth. He pauses for a moment, sliding a hand from my hair down to my cheek, as if savouring it.
Gentle. Cute. Almost innocent.
Then all hell breaks loose as he pushes me against the door and kisses me like he's drowning and I'm his last chance lifeline. It seems any element of control he had has finally snapped, and he can't hold back anymore.
And, oops, my new pornographic moan has just made another guest appearance.
He laughs, pulls back. Runs his hands down my body until he catches my waist then tugs me to him, resting his forehead against mine. "I'm going to have to apologise in advance for what is probably going to happen," he rasps out.
"What do you mean?" I whisper. He's backing towards the bed now and taking me with him.
"I've wanted this for a long time. A really long time." He lightly swipes his tongue along the seam of my lips. "And I'm not sure I'm going to be able to hold back."
My breath catches completely and I swallow hard, trying to recover myself. "Good," I reply. "Because I don't want you to."
With a shaky sigh, he sits down on the bed and reaches for my dressing gown tie, before he looks up at me as if asking for permission. Like I'm a birthday present and he isn't sure if he's allowed to unwrap me yet.
"Do it," I exhale, and he's catching the knot and pulling on it practically before I get the words out. My gown falls open to reveal the slip dress underneath.
Happy birthday, Ryan!
"Fuck." He scrubs at his face as he looks at me, eyes hooded, pupils dilated. "And here I thought you'd be wearing pyjamas with mice eating different types of cheese, or something equally ridiculous."
I can't help but giggle at that, confidence growing due to the heat in his gaze. "I thought I should dress a bit more suitably for the occasion," I manage to say. I quite like the fact he's obviously noticed my crazy pyjama collection. Although I prefer how he's noticing me now, to be perfectly honest. The hunger on his face is unmistakable.
"To be perfectly honest, you could be wearing a onesie and I'd still be into this." He admits. "But I'd still be wanting to get you out of it," he adds, as he pulls at the hem of my dress and urges me to pull it over my head.
"Fuck." He says again, gulping, as his eyes rove over my body. They snag on my breasts and he hisses in air sharply.
I should feel exposed and vulnerable, dressed only in my underwear while he sits there, fully dressed, watching me. But he's looking like me like I'm a goddess and, oh my god, I actually feel like one for a fucking change.
No one has ever looked at me like this before.
"Iona?" Ryan says ruefully, his face pained, reaching out for me again. "I think there's a good chance you're going to kill me tonight."
In one swift move he's got me on my back on the bed, his gorgeous face inches from mine again, breathing me in. His eyes have darkened further. In that moment, I think there's a strong chance he's going to kill me right back.
And I'm going to die a happy girl . . .
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