Chapter 21 Saoirse Friday 17 December
Inever thought I’d be in a rush to get away from Seb Macleod, of all people, but right now there’s only one man for me, and damned if I won’t do everything in my power to get Miles Montague to myself as soon as humanly possible.
But he was right. It is magical here, and when we reunite with Bea and shed our coats and head into the vast Oast House, I’m struck again by the thoughtfulness of this man who invited me along to Sorrel Farm because he knew I’d be in raptures over it.
Okay, I may have an inkling that it wasn’t the only reason he invited me. That he had an ulterior motive is now looking more likely. When he wrapped me up in his arms and pulled me into the warm cradle of his body, I thought I was in heaven.
Then, when he whispered my name, his breath hot against my cold ear, and kissed me with a need and hunger and passion that was so deliciously different from his grim-faced everyday persona, I really thought I was in heaven.
And then, when his hand crept inside my coat and behaved as if he already had me naked, showing me how he planned to touch my body later, I wasn’t just in heaven but floating in some parallel universe of pleasure.
But it was when he said that thing—just wait till I fucking get you home—that every part inside me that made me female clenched, and the throbbing between my legs kicked in, and it hasn’t stopped. I squirm in my seat and resign myself to the fact that it won’t stop until I get Miles to myself.
Later.
Right now, the promise of that will have to be enough, because I’m at a beautiful party in a magical resort, and the primary, non-sex-brained version of myself is fan-girling over the decor—the enormous eucalyptus wreaths and the ivy-print covered tables, with their tapered candles in tall, slim lanterns adorned with dusky pink velvet bows. So simple, and so perfect.
And I can’t be frustrated when little Bea is in raptures over the endless delicious food, and the presents on every place setting, and the number of deeply fabulous people who drop by and gush over how much Bea’s grown and how stylish she is.
I certainly can’t be frustrated when Miles sticks to me like glue.
We’re careful to avoid full-on PDA in front of Bea, but he’s by my side the whole time, he holds my hand under the tablecloth through dinner, and he introduces me to Seb Macleod, and his gorgeous ex-wife, Evelyn, and to lots of other fabulous people as his friend.
We see Astrid too, and she insists that a photographer takes a photo of me and her together, and she compliments me once more on how well the dress suits me, and I can’t help but notice the sly side-eye she gives me and Miles.
Almost as if she suspects her beautiful dress may have worked some magic.
But when dessert is over, and we’ve had a little dance with Bea on the shiny dance floor at one end of the Oast House, and we’ve tracked down Dave and handed over a huge platter of Sorrel Farm sausage rolls and other goodies for him to tuck into on the way home, and I’ve slunk into the middle of the back seat between Miles and Bea in her car seat, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Miles presses a button, and the partition between Dave and us closes. He leans towards me and whispers in my ear. ‘He can’t see or hear us now. And I give Bea five minutes before she’s passed out.’
I glance at Bea. We’ve tucked her favourite blanket around her, and she’s sucking her thumb and rubbing the satin edge of her blanket against her face. Her eyes are drooping comedically. I stroke the back of her hand, and within a few minutes, she’s out cold.
It’s just me and Miles.
I turn to look at him, and he twists around in his seat. Slides a hand behind my neck. His eyes slide to my lips, and I lick them automatically.
‘Did you have a good time?’ His voice is low and husky.
It’s hard to focus on anything but the reaction of my nerve-endings to his fingers sliding up and down my neck.
‘It was the best.’ I put a hand on his thigh. It’s like rock. Mmm. ‘Thank you so much for taking me.’
‘My pleasure.’ His face is so serious, but not unhappy serious; more like intense.
‘It will be.’ I smirk, and he lets out an anguished breath, rests his forehead against mine.
‘Temptress.’
‘I wonder when we would have got up the nerve to kiss if I hadn’t come along tonight.’
‘I probably would have broken and bent you over the kitchen counter at some point. Those little skirts you wear…’ He groans, nips at my bottom lip. ‘Or I would have dragged Bea back to Winter Wonderland and stuffed her full of dodgy burgers in the hope of a repeat of puke-gate.’
‘You’re horrible.’
I wrap my arms around his neck and tug him closer, slide my tongue into his mouth. Moody, grumpy, Grooge-Miles was hot and frustrating and impossibly attractive, in a challenging way, but intense, turned-on, no-filter Miles is playing havoc with my lady parts.
The knowledge that lust has been simmering under his (very bloody convincing) disinterested exterior is the best discovery I’ve ever made.
Like, ever.
It wasn’t just me. My miserable pining wasn’t in vain. He’s been suffering too, struggling, and now it’s reward time.
He slides a hand up my thigh over my tights, pushing up the fabric of my skirt, as his tongue does things to my lips and tongue and teeth that threaten to blow my brain clean of all rational thought.
‘If it wasn’t for my sleeping daughter next to you,’ he growls into my mouth, ‘these tights would be in tatters.’
My brain is exploding.
This man wants me.
He really wants me, and the promise of what lies ahead is totally intoxicating. Not only will I get my hands on him. On those shoulders, those pecs, that stomach I saw. Finally. But he seems equally set on getting his hands on me—and hopefully his other body parts, too.
‘Miles.’
It’s official.
He’s rendered me incapable of doing anything but clinging to him and moaning his name.
He squeezes my hair in his fist. ‘When you say my name, baby, it makes me worry that I won’t cover myself in glory tonight, in terms of my staying power. It’s been a while, you know.’
There it is. Baby. The word I’ve been dying to hear him call me. But with it comes a pang of heartbreak for his recent loneliness, and a twinge of paranoia. This show of desire and impatience on his part: it’s for me, right? It’s not just that he needs to get laid?
I pull my face away enough to see him properly. ‘Have you, you know, slept with anyone since you and your wife…’
‘Yeah. A couple of times this summer. Two different women. But it was very… perfunctory. It was what it was; I didn’t contact them afterwards, or anything.’
Perfunctory.
Jeez.
What a damning indictment of sex.
I try to hide the disappointment in my voice. ‘Is that what this is? Is this just—you need a servicing? Because I need to know, up front.’
‘Jesus Christ, no, Saoirse. Baby. You are so fucking beautiful, I can’t even—this is not a one-off. And I promise you, it’ll be so far from perfunctory, they’ll hear you screaming my name in the lobby. And me screaming your name, too. Okay?’
Okay then.