Chapter 21 Mila
Chapter 21
Mila
“Hey, pretty girl.”
My eyes flutter open, and I’m momentarily unsure who the compliment belongs to. But then I remember the voice from my dream. And how his touch became my reality.
“Hi.” I smile, the buttery light in the room making the color of his eyes meltingly sexy. “What are you doing?” My question is soporific, my movements sort of liquid as I stretch out along the mattress.
“Just watching you.”
“Creeper.” A flight of butterflies sweeps through my undies. “Any particular reason you’re watching, Creepy McCreeperson?”
“I’ve been waiting for your eyes to open. So I can make them roll back in your head again. Cool trick, huh?”
“You’re hilarious,” I say, sounding the opposite, though I wouldn’t be surprised if they had. I think I was even speaking in tongues at one point. “How long have I been asleep?” Because I feel amazing . I’m not sure how laughter can be proclaimed the best form of medicine when Fin has made me feel this wonderful.
Maybe life would be simpler if great sex was offered on prescription.
“Smiling girl.” But Fin is smiling too. “Wanna share those thoughts?”
“Not with you.”
From where he’s seated on the edge of the bed, Fin brushes a few strands of my hair away from my cheek. “You’ve been out a couple of hours.”
“You weren’t sleepy?”
His response is a little enigmatic. And a lot out of character.
“Was I snoring? Because I don’t snore,” I tag on quickly, hoping that Adam was lying. Just being cruel.
“Nope. That would’ve put me off counting your eyelashes.” But then he grins.
I make to stretch the sleep from my limbs, when I remember I’m naked under the sheet. Again. My heart gives a one-two thud, my arms dropping back to the mattress as my sympathetic nervous system turns over and does its awkward thing.
But when I find the ends of the sheet folded neatly just under my neck, I stifle a smile. Fin obviously went to the trouble of covering me before waking me up. Not because he doesn’t want to look but because he wants me to be comfortable.
That previous unhappy thought, one about Adam, suddenly feels like a poke in the middle of the forehead. How different this experience is. Or maybe all relationships turn toxic at some point. Does familiarity breed contempt?
No. The reason I’ve been so down on myself, so down on my body, is because Adam wore me to that point. I lost myself in that relationship, but I think Fin is helping me find myself again. Just a few hours ago, I was naked and spread-eagled in front of him—I know he likes what he sees, and I don’t just have to take his word for it. His huskily delivered, heart-stoppingly dirty compliments. Because I also see how he watches me, how he pays attention. How his eyes drink their fill when I’m undertaking the most ordinary of tasks. And then there’s earlier, when he studied my reactions and seemed to get off on my pleasure, postponing his own.
To think I might’ve missed out on that experience.
To think we could’ve been going at it like bad bunnies since Saturday.
Sex. Wow. That tiny word doesn’t even cover what he did to me. What he did for me. What we experienced together. He pushed me out of my shell, showed me who was boss ... while making sure at all times I was happy to hand things over.
How did he know to do that? Intuition, I suppose, just like now, covering me with the sheet. He pays attention.
“Thank you for covering me,” I whisper.
“Wouldn’t want you to get cold.” His eyes dance with humor.
“How long did you look before you covered me?” I ask as I reach out to cup his cheek.
“That would be telling.”
“I don’t look like your usual type.” I silently curse myself for the brain fart that burst from my mouth. Wow. I so need to adjust the dial on my internal self-love barometer.
“Stalker, much?” His words end in a playful curl.
“You wish,” I say, ignoring my stinging cheeks, because that wasn’t the answer my subconscious was looking for. “I just had to make sure you didn’t have a wife and a boatload of kids.” And absolutely nothing to do with my insecurities.
“You think I might be a bigamist?” His expression—it’s like he can’t decide whether to laugh or be annoyed.
“You know what I mean. Anyway, it turns out you don’t have a harem, but you also have a fan club,” I retort, thinking of my internet stalk.
“I wonder who’s collecting the membership subscriptions. I should get a cut, right?”
“You’re ridiculous,” I whisper, stretching my arms about my head. As the sheet grazes my nipple, I realize I’m experiencing my very first nipple slip ...
“You’re the sexiest woman I know.”
“Is that so?” I whisper, sliding my fingers from neck to sternum, dragging the sheet lower as my fingers traverse my ribs.
He hums a sound, low and long, his gaze turning my nipples to hard points. Oh, my days, pushing through your insecurities—forcing yourself to relax into your own skin—is sort of empowering. Look at me and my blooming sexuality, and my power over him.
I make a tiny noise of pleasure as Fin slides his thumb across my exposed nipple.
“You know, I never considered myself to have a type before,” he says, watching my body undulate under his touch. “It turns out I do.” His eyes are so dark as they lift.
“You don’t look very happy about that,” I say, arching into his hand.
“It’s not that,” he murmurs, bending to press his lips to the hard bud. “I’m kind of conflicted. I ran you a bath—I thought you might like that—but now I just want to lick you clean myself.”
The man ran me a bath. I am ridiculously touched by that.
I was also physically touched. Because we fooled around a bit. And it was heavenly.
He touched me here , here , and here , I mouth silently in the mirror, examining the evidence. A patch of stubble rash. A sucking bite to my chest. He might praise my bum, but he also seems really into my boobs. Actually, I think it’s more the case that he’s into the whole package. I love that for me. All this pleasure and a bath!
It might sound stupid, given I’ve got hands that work, but no one has ever run me a bath since I was a little girl. A bath is a treat to me as an adult—a moment to indulge in a little relaxation. It’s like a sign that says Go on, take some time. Treat yourself.
And I never treat myself.
So I appreciate this so much. I also appreciate how Fin didn’t wait around, allowing me a few moments alone in the bathroom to do what a girl must. I leave the door open afterward as a sign that I wouldn’t mind his company, pushing myself a little further out of my comfort zone.
It’s where the rewards are.
And I’m just sinking into the fragrant water as Fin appears on the threshold. Shirtless, just how I like him. I like that he doesn’t ask permission, just drops his shoulder against the doorframe and watches.
“How’s the water?”
His appraisal causes heat to flare and swirl through my core, even as that voice inside triggers those familiar sentiments. You’re too short. Too round. You want too much—you are too much. Yesterday, those thoughts would’ve hit me hard. Would’ve caused something prompted or pointed to shoot out of my mouth. Today, I choose a new path. If I’m too much for you, too bad. Because I’m just who I need to be for myself. Or at least, I’m learning to be. And I revel under Fin’s attention, because it’s clear he doesn’t find me lacking.
The thought shimmers across my skin.
“It’s perfect. Look, my skin is all silky.” I lift my arms, sliding my hands over each in turn. “I don’t know what you’ve put in here, but I’ll smell good enough to eat.”
His eyes darken and he folds his arms across his chest. “Looks to me as though someone’s decided to be a naughty little strumpet.”
“A what?” I ask with a delighted, stuttering laugh. I sink deeper into the tub.
“And it sounds like someone is angling for a spanking.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say, ignoring the flush of heat his words cause. “Let’s back it up a bit. Who, under the age of seventy, says strumpet ?”
“We have established you like older men.” He pushes off the doorframe and stalks toward me. My insides flip. “Maybe I can borrow a walking stick, and we can indulge in a little role-playing, Mila style.”
“First of all, eww . Second, what even is a strumpet?” As I speak, I turn my head, following his path as he moves behind me to the top of the bath.
“A very bad girl,” he says, drawing the words out as he encourages me to lie back.
And I do, jumpy and sort of nervous as I force my arms to remain by my sides. My body is such a pale contrast to the dark water.
“A strumpet is a very wicked creature.” He dips his hands into the warm water, and I bite my bottom lip as his bare chest brushes my shoulders. His hands skate up my arms, the bath oil aiding their slick slide. “Who loves to tease.”
“Sounds like you might be a strumpet.”
His laughter sounds so dirty as his hands swipe across my shoulders before making a return journey. They move momentarily away, returning with a natural sponge. This time, he reaches over me, dipping it into the water before showering it over the tops of my breasts.
“Sit up. I’ll wash your back.”
The fact that this isn’t a request makes me tingle all over. It’s a good thing he’s behind me, because it’s not the heat from the bath that’s making my face hot. I do as I’m bidden, the water sluicing up the bath’s sides before Fin begins to soap me up, drawing soft circles over my skin.
“I’ve got some news.”
I turn my head and watch him in profile as his words echo in the cavernous room.
“We’re not going to be able to go down the annulment path,” he adds, his expression unchanging.
I turn away, not sure what to say as my mind struggles to process, jumping from pleasure to uncertainty. “You spoke to your legal team again?”
“I just got off the phone with the head guy. There’s no space for wrangling, legally speaking. But I’m assured it’ll be easy to fix once we’re back in London.”
“How? How easy can a divorce be? Because that’s what we’re talking about, right?” My mind begins to run through the implications. Married. To him. But not really. There are bound to be complications, even if the marriage is just on paper.
Baba’s nursing home, for one. The thought brings with it a sinking feeling. As she has no assets to speak of, the local authority—the state, I suppose—is responsible for the fees of her current nursing home. My upcoming windfall, the reason I’d supposedly fake married Fin, means I’ll have the funds to contribute—to choose to place her somewhere and pay the shortfall. That was the plan, at least.
But if I’m suddenly married to a wealthy man, a man who has already contributed—because that’s how his loan will appear to the authorities—might I then become liable for the fees? Her current (mediocre) nursing home charges thousands a month.
My new nest egg isn’t going to get us very far.
“Try and relax, Mila. I promise I’ll fix things.”
I snap out of my thoughts, relieved at the interruption. Not that I can tell Fin any of this.
You could try, not-Ronny suggests. But I ignore her.
I’ve stood on my own two feet my whole adult life, through good times and bad. I’m not about to get out my begging bowl now.
“Your legal people, they won’t blab, will they?”
“Lawyers have a code of ethics they’re bound to.”
“Oh. Of course. But—”
“And watertight NDAs.”
I frown and nod at the same time. “We can’t tell anyone. Not even your friends.”
“Still want to keep me your dirty little secret?”
I ignore his teasing. Wouldn’t that be more the other way around? “I’m serious. You especially can’t tell Evie and Oliver.”
“I know, you already said.” But his tone sounds uncertain.
“I mean it.” I turn my head over my shoulder as I make a grab for his wrist. “Promise me, Fin.”
“Sure.” He doesn’t get it, judging by his expression. “This isn’t the big deal you think it is.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I murmur, turning away again. “I doubt you’ve ever had to wear the weight of other people’s judgment.”
“Fuck what people think. I should’ve said that before. I never judged you, not even before.”
Before he knew about Baba, he means. Maybe he’d judge me if he knew what Baba had predicted. He might even think I did this on purpose.
“I don’t care that Oliver offered to pay you. That was business, nothing more. What happened after was apart, and nothing to do with anyone but us.”
I huff a breath. It’s not quite a laugh. It all sounds so fucked up. Oliver, his best friend, paid me to fake marry him. Not to real marry him. Not to have lots and lots of sex with him. Not to fall in love with him. Which I won’t. Still, I can’t help but think how people would twist this, make it sound as worthless as Oliver buying his best man a lap dance.
“You shouldn’t give a fuck what people think—not that Oliver and Evie would judge you.”
“You can’t know that, and it’s a risk I can’t afford to take.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, so I hope my meaning is sinking in. But the silence feels so uncomfortable.
“I need the money,” I whisper. “And I haven’t exactly met my part of the bargain.”
“Some would say you’ve overdelivered. Transcended ...”
“It’s not just the money,” I admit. “It would be bad for my business if news of our marriage gets out.”
“You know, you didn’t answer when I asked if wedding planners have to take a vow of celibacy.” The sponge circles, his words turning teasing and light. “Are they not allowed to take part in the blissful state themselves?”
“Please be serious. You were there, you heard Oliver promise to get my business mentioned in some magazine articles. I could really benefit from the exposure. It’s not that I need Oliver’s help; it’s that I’m desperate for it—that I refuse to risk it.”
“Won’t I do?”
“By recommending my services for a wedding where I’m the bride? Your bride?”
“Yeah, I see your point.”
But I’m not sure he does. Fin DeWitt, consummate bachelor and alleged playboy, would like to recommend the services of Trousseau, a boutique wedding-planning service. It would be like Sweeney Todd recommending Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop, or a pyromaniac a brand of matches.
“I’m sure we could come up with another angle, PR-wise,” he adds.
“It looks bad, Fin. I plan a wedding for Oliver and Evie and snag their best man, one of London’s most popular bachelors, in the process? Marrying him within days?”
“We might’ve fallen head over heels for one and other.”
“And out of love again once the divorce is finalized? No,” I add softly. “That’s a plan with very little long-term appeal. I won’t risk Trousseau. I think it’s best no one knows.”
A silence falls between us, but for the ripple and drip of water.
“ One of London’s most popular?” he says, moving the conversation back from the topic of us, perhaps being careful not to point out he’s technically no longer a bachelor.
“You already know I looked you up.”
“Which is my point,” he says softly.
“I don’t think your profile will be good for my business.” Or my heart.
He doesn’t answer as he begins to rinse away the suds, squeezing the wet sponge over my back and my shoulders before encouraging me to lie back again.
“I’m sorry if I sound harsh. There’s just such a lot at stake for me.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
But I feel like I’ve hurt him. We fall quiet again.
“What’s your favorite color?” he asks as the soapy sponge slides down my arms.
“Why?”
“We’ve got a few days. Can’t spend every minute of it fucking.”
I actually laugh at that.
“I thought we could get to know each other. We can be friends.”
“Okay,” I answer uncertainly. It’s a nice sentiment, but it also feels a little like a trap. “Probably blue,” I say, though I almost answered gray . “Yours?”
“I like pink,” he murmurs, sliding the sponge between my breasts.
“Do you wear a lot of pink ?” The word hits the air in a hard puff as the sponge glides over my nipple.
“Not really. But it’s still my favorite color,” he says swiping again. I let out a shaky breath as the sponge moves away. “How did you get into wedding planning?”
“The official story is I’m a sucker for a good love story. That I’m efficient and goal oriented just means—”
“I can vouch for you there.” I tilt my head to find his lips already near my ear.
I don’t have an answer. Not a verbal one, at least, as he traces the sponge over the rise and fall of my chest.
“You were saying? About your job.”
“I worked in a wedding-dress shop as a teenager. After school came a succession of admin jobs. Then I ended up helping a neighbor with her wedding after her mother died quite suddenly. I was between jobs,” I whisper. Between jobs and a little listless. I’d forgotten about my earlier dreams of living like those women in the shop.
“A new direction.” Fin dips the sponge under the water and over the softness of my stomach, grazing the top of my pubic bone before sliding back.
“Yeah. Baba volunteered my services, and I just sort of learned on the job. It turns out, one of the bride’s guests worked for a small magazine publication, and the wedding ended up being featured.”
Fin repeats the motion, and I release a shaky breath as he dips a little lower, coasting over my pussy.
“And a legend was made,” he purrs.
I don’t answer as my body strains to maintain the contact, my back arching and my breasts rising from the water.
“What about you? Do you en-enjoy what you do?”
“I like people, and I like money, so I like my job,” he murmurs, continuing to swirl the sponge over my skin in soft, teasing circles.
I bet he’s never liked it so much, needed it so much that he’d consider marrying a stranger.
“I think it’s time to wash this soap away,” he says as he reaches toward the tall tap. Which turns out to have a detachable showerhead. Warm water suddenly rains down on my breasts, and I make a startled noise, my arms rising from the water to reach for his.
“Hush now,” he whispers, leaning closer and pressing the showerhead between my legs. “Open your legs for me, sweet girl.”
And fool that I am for his touch, for him, I do.