Love to Hate You: Ask Vicky...

Chapter Two - A Night to Remember (Or Not)

Vicky sat at the bar in a stylish London restaurant, waiting for her blind date to appear. She'd agreed to the ghastly scheme because a "Blind Date" meant that, if her date adhered to the small print in their contract, Damien couldn't send her dick pics, because they technically still classed as "Head Shots". Her date was supposedly an insurance broker; a definite black mark against his name. But her neighbour - Heidi - who had arranged the blind date, promised that he was "at least six-foot tall", with brown hair and blue eyes. She said he worked out a lot, that he was into comedy (a plus point, because people who state that they "Don't like comedy" have definitely got something wrong with them). But most importantly, at thirty-seven years old, Heidi told her that Damien lived alone, in a nice flat which contained a double bed. Vicky had been disappointed that it wasn't a king-size bed, but anything was an improvement on trying to quietly have sex in a single bed whilst the parents of her thirty-year-old fling snored loudly next door.

Vicky had received a text message from Damien earlier that afternoon, telling her that he'd had to go into work for a meeting, and that if it overran, he might have to head straight to the restaurant, and not to be put off if he was wearing a suit and carrying a laptop. It had made it difficult for Vicky to decide what to wear; did she dress to suit his suit or not? In the end, she'd settled for a middle ground of black cigarette pants (which were about as corporate as Vicky ever got) and a peach negligee top made of satin and lace. She'd never been entirely certain that it wasn't a pyjama top, but if it was, it was a very fancy one, and because she was fairly flat-chested, she didn't need to wear a bra, which made her ensemble look effortlessly seductive.

So seductive, in fact, that she'd caught the attention of a man by the window; a very handsome man, sat in an armchair beside a low table. Vicky's eyes met his; blue - bluer than a bubblegum slushie. Her eyes darted away in shock; so piercing was his look. Instead, she ogled his body. It was broad. The man obviously worked out. His limbs appeared long, as though folding himself into the small armchair had required considerable effort, and what was more, he was wearing a suit, with a laptop perched on the coffee table in front of him.

Halle-f*cking-lujah! Vicky said to herself, because Damien was a walking wet dream. He caught her eye once more, lifting his brows in invitation. He obviously wanted her to come to him, and - seeing as he'd nabbed a pair of velvet armchairs - Vicky didn't much mind moving. Sliding from her bar stool, she picked up her gin and tonic, tucked her hair behind her ear, and walked - as seductively as she could - towards her future husband.

'Hi,' she said, coming to a stop in front of him.

'Hello,' replied an orgasm-inducing voice. 'You must be my date for the evening?' he said, with a sexy smirk. Vicky nodded.

'Heidi wasn't lying about you, was she?' Vicky said, as he gestured to the chair beside him.

'What's that?' he asked.

'Heidi. She said you were good looking, but you know what blind dates are like; you can't trust what anyone tells you, can you?'

'No,' came his hesitant reply. He blinked at her languidly; a slight frown tugging at his brows, before his face relaxed into a satisfied smile. 'And what do I call you?'

'"Vicky" is fine,' she told him. She eyed the expensive cut of his suit. Insurance obviously paid well. 'Or "Victoria". Whichever you prefer.'

'But you prefer "Vicky"?' he asked, in a low, predatory voice. Vicky swallowed thickly. She was - for the first time in her life - out of her depth.

'Well,' she said, with a nervous laugh. '"Victoria" doesn't exactly roll of the tongue does it?'

'During sex?' he smiled. 'No.' She squirmed in her seat. Vicky Wilkes actually squirmed. 'Remind me how old you are?' he said, cool as anything.