Chapter 31 #2
My fingers hover over the phone. The sensible part of my brain agrees with Fee. Play it cool, don’t seem desperate.
The larger, more pathetic part of my brain is already typing:
Just doing yoga. Why?
His response comes back almost instantly.
I need you to assist with work today.
Work. I grit my teeth. What an asshole. It’s my day off.
One night he makes me feel like a woman worth worshipping. The next, I’m back to being the help. It’s emotional whiplash, and my poor neck is about ready for a brace.
His next message makes me frown:
I’ll pick you up.
I stare at the phone. Why does he need to pick me up for work? The hotel is literally one road away. Unless he thinks I’m so incompetent I can’t navigate the single road that connects the cottage to civilization.
I shoot back a message:
When?
Twenty minutes.
My brain flips into panic mode.
“I have to get ready,” I say, already backing toward the cottage.
Fee finally sits up. “Georgie, just… be careful, yeah? Don’t let him mess you about.”
I’m already through the door, because twenty minutes isn’t nearly enough time to transform myself from yoga disaster into competent professional woman, and if Patrick McLaren thinks he can just summon me like staff, well…
Actually, that’s exactly what he’s doing because that’s exactly what I am. That’s the problem.
The Land Rover pulls up fifteen minutes later. I honestly don’t know how this is going to go. I hate not knowing. Is this some emergency software crisis that cropped up while he was in London? Some overly ambitious feature Craig promised we could deliver by Monday?
Through the windscreen, I see Patrick sitting in the driver’s seat, baseball cap pulled low.
When he spots me hovering by the cottage door, he climbs out to open the passenger door for me.
That’s when I clock what he’s wearing.
The sweatshirt is normal enough. Light gray, hood down, the sort of thing you’d wear for a casual weekend.
But below that…
Patrick McLaren, billionaire CEO, destroyer of men, breaker of me, is wearing chest-high rubber waders. Olive green. With suspenders. The suspenders stretch taut across his chest, the kind you’d see on a fly-fishing magazine cover, except those models don’t usually have forearms like Patrick.
The waders go all the way down into massive rubber boots.
I blink. Several times. “Not that I’m qualified to judge anyone’s fashion choices, but... what’s happening with your outfit?”
He glances down casually. “What, these?” He flicks a suspender strap. “My fisherman’s waders?”
“Yes? That would be my question, yes. Those would be what I’m referring to.”
“We’re going fishing.”
Fishing. The man has seen me naked, made me orgasm in front of a mirror, carried me up a mountain, and now he’s standing here dressed like the world’s most attractive fisherman.
I wait for the punchline. A laugh. A gotcha. Something to explain why Patrick McLaren is cosplaying as a fisherman in my driveway.
Nothing. He just stands there, completely serious, thumb hooked through a suspender.
“I don’t… I don’t understand.”
“You’ve got a list to finish.” His voice is gruff, like he’s annoyed at having to explain something obvious. His eyes catch mine, a flicker of heat sparking there. “And since you apparently have a thing for fishermen, I thought I’d save you the trouble of finding one.”
The air leaves my lungs in an embarrassing squeak. “Have athletic sex with rugged fishermen.”
“Steady on.” His mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “I said we’re going fishing. Let’s start there.”
“We’re actually going fishing. Like, with rods and... fish?”
“That’s typically how fishing works.”
I can’t stop staring. There should be regulations against men that hot voluntarily putting himself in rubber suspenders. It’s like watching James Bond moonlight as a plumber.
“But you just got back from London with those magazine people. Don’t you have important CEO things to do?”
“I wined and dined them last night. My afternoon is clear.”
“You cleared your afternoon to take me fishing?”
“Your list isn’t going to finish itself.” He says it dismissively, but I catch the way he won’t quite meet my eyes, like he’s embarrassed by his own sweetness. He adjusts his cap.
I beam. The man cleared his Saturday afternoon to help me check off “athletic sex with rugged fisherman.”
Well, fishing. We’re starting with fishing. But still.
He rounds the Land Rover, pops the boot, and lifts something out.
Another set of waders. Smaller. He holds them up by the suspenders. “These are yours.”
I stare at the rubber legs swinging in the breeze. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know!” My hand slaps over my mouth as an ungodly snort bursts out. “Oh my God.”
I take the waders from him, clutching the heavy rubber in both hands, and try to smother the ridiculous grin spreading across my face. I have never in my life been happier to be handed a pair of rubber waders.
My stupid heart is treating it like he’s just given me roses.
I clomp out of the cottage, every step punctuated by the erotic squeak of rubber on rubber. It is impossible to look sexy in chest-high waders. I tried to salvage the situation with a snug white vest top underneath, hair loose, but honestly, it’s like sticking a bow on a tractor.
One glance in the Land Rover’s side mirror nearly finishes me. The rubber has stretched across my chest in a way that doesn’t look remotely seductive. It looks… agricultural. I don’t just have tits. I have big rubber tits.
Patrick leans against the Land Rover, waiting for me. When his eyes sweep over me, I want the earth to swallow me whole.
“Did you just happen to have these lying around?” I ask.
He pushes off the Land Rover, one corner of his mouth tipping higher. He steadies me by the elbow as I clamber into the passenger seat, which, yes, is necessary because rubber waders plus my existing lack of grace equals a guaranteed trip to A it feels like my part in proving something too.
One of the suspender straps slips off my shoulder. “Bloody things,” I mutter, yanking it back up. “I don’t feel remotely attractive in this getup.”
His gaze drags down, taking me in. “You look like a sweet little thing.”
“Sweet little things aren’t sexy.”
His hand leaves the wheel and drops heavy onto my knee. Even through the layers of rubber, the heat of him sears straight through. The Land Rover jolts over a bump, but he keeps steering one-handed like a total caveman. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
My breath hitches. Everything about this scenario is ridiculously hot.
“You look really handsome like this,” I murmur, biting my lip.
“Glad you approve,” he says, voice dropping to that low rumble that makes my pulse trip.
The squeak of my waders fills the cab every time I shift.
“You can drive one-handed? That’s… quite the multitask.”
“I can.” His thumb strokes lazy circles against my leg. “So, tell me. In this fisherman fantasy of yours, what exactly happens?”
I giggle nervously. “I don’t know. Maybe he… reels me in.”
His head shakes at the terrible pun, but his hand slides higher, tracing the line of the waders until he reaches where the suspenders bunch at my waist. I think he’s going to fix them. Instead, his fingers slip inside, under the rubber, then lower still, beneath cotton.
I gasp, thighs parting before my brain catches up. “What… what are you doing?”
His mouth curves, eyes still locked on the road. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Patrick,” I whisper, the word strangled, as his fingers stroke down into the heat between my thighs.
“I told you I can multitask,” he growls, thumb flicking over my clit in a way that rips a helpless jerk out of my hips.
The contrast is dizzying. The Land Rover thunders over gravel, his right hand steady on the wheel, while his left is buried in my underwear.
My brain is in chaos. Half of me is shrieking about road safety, about how this is wildly irresponsible. The other half is practically clawing at his wrist, desperate to force his hand deeper.
Who am I right now? I don’t do casual outdoor sexual activities.
“We can’t,” I gasp, my hand flying to his wrist. “What if someone—”
“No-one can see.” He cuts me off, eyes still ahead, calm as anything. “And even if there was… I’d still have you open for me.”
The casual way he says it—like I’m a certainty, not a choice—should make me furious. Instead it makes me melt.
A broken sound escapes as his finger circles my clit. “Patrick—oh, God—”
“That’s it,” he murmurs. He glances sideways, just for a second, to catch my face. His jaw flexes at whatever he sees there—me panting, already clenching around nothing, my lip between my teeth.
He pushes two fingers inside me, stretching me. My head thumps back against the seat as a moan slips out.
“Tell me about this fisherman fantasy,” he orders.
“I—” My breath hitches as his fingers slide in and out of me. “I don’t know—I just—”
“Say it.”
The Land Rover jolts over a pothole and his fingers slam deeper inside me.
Holy actual shit.
Thank God he’s only doing twenty miles an hour. Any faster and I’d be plastered against the windscreen in the world’s least dignified orgasm.
“I…” My breath splinters as his hand returns to my clit. “He’s rough, he takes me wherever he wants to. He’s too strong to fight off. I’d have no choice but to… to give in. To let him.”
He chuckles darkly. “You’re fucking right he does.”
The car jolts over another rut and I squeal, the sound bursting out of me as the sharp edge of pleasure slices through again.
His other hand tightens on the wheel, keeping us steady while I’m actively falling apart in the passenger seat like a woman possessed.
I grab his forearm with both hands, nails probably leaving tiny messages in his skin. “I can’t, Patrick, I can’t. I’m going to. Oh God.”
The car slows to a crawl at a red light.
A red light.
With people outside.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, my eyes flying open in pure horror. “Patrick, there’s a person.” My voice shoots up three octaves. “There’s a person walking past—ahhhhhh—”
An elderly man in a flat cap strolls directly in front of us at the pace of someone who has nothing on his schedule but life itself.
Patrick has the audacity to chuckle. It’s low and dark and he sounds entirely too pleased with himself. “He can’t see inside the car.”
“He can see my face,” I shriek, and another wave hits so hard my head drops back against the headrest. “Oh fuck—”
The old gentleman reaches my window and pauses, close enough that I can see the weave of his tweed.
Please don’t look. I’m begging you, sir. For both our sakes.
He looks.
Our eyes lock.
I pant, mouth hanging open, eyes probably rolled back in my head, while Patrick’s fingers continue their devastating work.
I pray this gentleman thinks I am having a medical emergency and not a very public orgasm.
He pulls out a tissue from his jacket pocket and proceeds to have a good long blow of his nose. Inspects the results. Folds it carefully. Tucks it back in his pocket. Takes his sweet time about the whole thing.
“I’m going to die,” I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut as another wave crashes through me. “I’m going to die of embarrassment before I can even—oh fuck—Patrick—”
My whole body locks up, thighs trembling, seatbelt digging into my shoulder as I arch against the leather.
“Let go, sweetheart.”
I shatter with a sharp cry, my pussy clenching hard around his fingers as the orgasm rips through me. The Land Rover jolts over the track again, and I cling to his forearm, trembling so hard the world outside dissolves into a blur.
He finally eases his hand free then settles his hand back on the wheel like nothing just happened.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, gripping the edge of the seat like I might slide right out of it. “You’re a monster.”
Of all the places I thought sex might happen in my life, “inside waterproof rubber trousers while a man steers with one hand” was not on the bingo card. It’s so completely filthy.
What the hell is this man doing to me? The careful, anxious girl who triple-checks her alarm clock disappears the second he touches me, replaced by this feral creature of pure need who’d let him have her anywhere, while someone’s grandfather goes about his day.
This man has conquered my body. He can have me splayed out, making animal noises, begging for more in ten seconds.
If he can do this to my body, what the hell could he do to my soul?