Chapter 16 Rory
Rory
We practically ran back to the cottage through the golden evening light, turning the walk into some sort of playful race—completing the journey in record time before bursting through the door, tumbling over each other as we jostled to be first inside.
The door slammed shut, and in a blink, Maxwell caught me—strong arms circling my waist like he was apprehending his most wanted fugitive—and in one decisive motion, hoisted me upwards as though I weighed nothing.
I shrieked in surprise, then laughed, instinctively locking my legs around his waist, my arms finding anchor around his neck as he carried me into the kitchen.
The sudden height gave me a new vantage point, looking down into those dark eyes now dancing with intention rather than their usual scrutiny.
His lips found mine, seeking and demanding, as he placed me on the counter.
Maxwell’s hands slid under my shirt, fingers working against the tight fabric that clung stubbornly to my skin.
“Did you wear this stupidly tight shirt today just to torment me?” he murmured against my lips.
“Obviously,” I replied, grinning. “Did it work?”
He traced the curve of my spine with blunted nails, making my back arch, his fingers oh-so warm against the cottage’s chill.
“Too well.”
One of my hands tangled in his hair, scratching with just the same amount of pressure as he was giving me.
I kissed a path along his stubbled jaw, mouthing my lips against the coarse hair.
I finally reached his waiting tongue. A hint of camomile tea still lingered, and my ears caught the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, matching the frantic pace of mine.
I tightened my legs around him, drawing him closer to the counter’s edge.
The position had my hardening cock pressing against the firm plane of his stomach while his own growing erection nudged against the counter beneath me.
Rolling my hips forward, I sought more contact, more friction, dragging myself against him with a low moan that he swallowed with another kiss.
Maxwell’s hands traced fire along my skin, and all I could think about was how much I wanted him—all of him.
My mind raced with possibilities as his mouth moved against mine.
I wanted to drop to my knees right here in this cottage kitchen, take him into my mouth again like I had last night.
The thought of his taste, his weight on my tongue, made me harder.
Or maybe this time he’d be the one to sink down, those lovely lips wrapped around me…
Oh, the things I wanted to do with him. I rarely found anyone I felt comfortable bottoming for—usually seeking partners that wanted me to top.
But with Maxwell, I ached for him to twist me around, to bend me over this very counter.
Or maybe he’d prefer the bed, where he could watch my face as he pushed inside me.
The images flooded my mind, each more explicit than the last.
Then Priya’s voice echoed in my head: “What if this is more than just sex?”
The thought hit me like a bucket of ice water, even as Maxwell’s hands continued their exploration of my body. Because she was right.
I didn’t just want to fuck Maxwell. I wanted to fall asleep with his arms around me, wake up to his octopus hugs and sleepy morning face.
I wanted to surprise him with breakfast in bed—maybe French toast, which I was actually half decent at making.
I wanted to go for walks with him that didn’t involve searching for my ex-boyfriend’s dead body.
I wanted to see his rare smile when I said something unexpectedly funny.
I wanted to keep winding him up, to have him glower at me until he cracked, bursting into laughter.
I wanted to peel back each of his layers, to discover all the soft parts of him he kept so carefully hidden.
To map every corner of his guarded heart.
I didn’t want this to end when we got back to London.
The realisation terrified me. This was Theodore Maxwell—Detective Dickface—the man who’d arrested me during a full moon.
The man I’d spent the last year and a half insulting.
The man who was only up here with me in Scotland because it was his job.
The man who’d never even kissed another man before this.
Maxwell’s hand crept up my thigh to land on my cock, squeezing lightly through the denim of my jeans, and I gasped at the contact, pushing up into him—but the spiral of thoughts wouldn’t stop.
“Wait,” I said, against my better judgement, heart sinking like a stone. “Hold on a moment.”
Maxwell jumped back as if I’d slapped him, his hands flying up in surrender.
“I’m so sorry,” he blurted, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to—I thought you wanted—”
“No, no,” I said quickly, hopping off the counter and reaching for him. “That was all great. So great. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just…” I tore a hand through my hair, struggling to find the right words. “Is this just sex?”
He blinked at me. “What?”
“Is this just sex?” I repeated, my heart fluttering wildly, sending me dizzy.
Maxwell frowned, adjusting his glasses. “That’s what you told me it was yesterday.”
“I know, but I say a lot of things.” I sighed. “You might have noticed by now.”
He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “What are you saying?”
I fidgeted with the hem of my shirt, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I’m not sure.”
Maxwell retreated further, exhaling loudly.
My eyes darted around the cottage kitchen, desperate for something to focus on that wasn’t Maxwell’s increasingly concerned expression.
That’s when I spotted a bottle rack mounted on the wall near the window.
I reached it in three quick strides, scanning the collection until I found a bottle of single malt whisky, about half empty, its amber contents glowing like liquid gold.
I brought out two heavy crystal tumblers that looked like they’d seen their fair share of Highland evenings, poured just myself a glass, leaving the bottle on the counter.
I turned to find Maxwell staring at me like I’d completely lost my mind, which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. “Well,” Maxwell said, “what are you sure of?”
“Why do I have to be the one to put my cards on the table first?”
Maxwell rolled his eyes so far back I thought they might disappear into his skull.
“Let’s play truth or drink,” I suggested, swirling my whisky. “Three questions each.”
“Are we twelve?” Maxwell asked, voice dripping with disdain.
“Please?” I said, then stared at him until he sighed, reached for the whisky and poured himself the tiniest amount.
“I’ll go first.” I leaned forward, studying his face. “Do you still hate me?”
Maxwell frowned, a genuinely almost convincing display of puzzlement.
“I’ve never hated you, Rory. You’ve infuriated me.
Made me want to bang my head against the wall.
Made me want to shake you on more than one occasion.
But I’ve never hated you. Not in the same way you hate me.
I mean, hated me.” He raised an eyebrow. “Do you still hate me?”
“No.” I took a tiny sip of whisky. “So… do you like me?”
A long pause. He stared at me through his glasses, his eyebrows a squiggle. “Do I… like you?”
“Yes. You have to answer, or throw back that whole drink.”
He sighed, long and deep, a sound of resignation. “Yes, Rory. Yes, I like you.”
My heart did a weird little flip. It was a simple admission, but hearing those words in his serious, slightly exasperated voice made my skin tingle.
Though it wasn’t enough.
“But do you like, like me?”
Maxwell looked to the ceiling and mumbled what might have been a prayer.
I moved closer, one hand on my hip. “Well?”
He met my gaze, his wide hazelnut eyes studying me carefully.
The lusciously thick eyelashes I was so jealous of fluttered as he blinked slowly.
“Listen, I’m going to be honest here. This is all quite…
confusing for me. And very… sudden. Possibly I hit my head a week ago and I’m in a coma right now, and this is all one crazy dream.
But… yes… I think— no, I know. I do like you.
Like, like you. Which, considering you drive me absolutely mad, is quite frankly terrifying and completely impractical, but here we are.
I think I might like, like you very much. What about you?”
I briefly considered pretending to contemplate the question for a moment, but I could tell the honesty he’d just given me had cost him. So he deserved my own.
I brought two hands to each side of Maxwell’s head, cradling his face between my palms. I focused intently, channelling every ounce of sincerity I possessed into a single thought:
…I think I might like, like you very much as well…
I pushed the thought forward with all my might, willing it to cross the barrier between our minds, infusing it with the tangled mess of emotions churning inside me—the warmth, the fear, the longing.
Maxwell’s breath audibly caught. His eyes widened behind his glasses, lips parting in surprise. He leaned down, trying to capture my mouth with his, but I ducked away, sliding my hands down to rest on his shoulders.
“You still have one more question left,” I said softly. “It has to be fair.”
I still had a dozen more questions I desperately wanted to ask him, like “but do you want to see me when we get back to London,” and “what fruit is your favourite on French toast,” and “why do you make me feel so warm and tingly inside?”
But I kept silent, awaiting Maxwell’s final question.
He considered me, his gaze searching my face. “What’s that weird electric thing that keeps happening to you? I know you know what it is.”
Fuck. Not that.
Visualising a white brick wall in case he decided to cheat, I reached over to pick up my glass and downed the drink in three large gulps, the amber liquid burning a fiery trail down my throat. I gasped for air afterwards, my eyes watering.