Chapter 8
eight
I collapse onto Mac, feeling his arms surround me for a brief, lovely second. “God,” I whisper fervently into his throat. “That was amazing .”
His arms tighten, and then he pushes at me.
Taking my cue, I climb off his cock and fall to his side into the sweaty sheets.
I can feel his come start to slide out of me and almost immediately his hand comes down, his fingers tracing idle patterns through the cooling spunk.
I spread my legs. I love it when he does this.
“I like being on top,” I say thoughtfully. “Although I thought the person doing all the work was in control.”
He settles back on his pillow. “I get the feeling you wouldn’t like that.”
I consider that and then nod. “I do like you being in charge. Do you think that’s a kink?”
“Does it matter?”
I stare at him as he pillows his head on his arms and stares out the window.
From this angle, I can see the tops of the green trees in the park and the grey sky.
I edge a little closer, observing him covertly.
Is he staying? He’s usually out of the door before the spunk has dried on me, so this is a novelty.
He doesn’t notice my observation, and that’s completely out of character too. He continues to stare out of the window at nothing, and he has a moody look on his face.
“You okay?” I ask, snuggling into the sheets on my side, continuing to observe him.
“What?” He gives me a startled glance.
My interest deepens. “You. Look. Troubled,” I say, spacing out the words.
“Thank you so much for enlightening me, Wes. You’re invaluable. How do I live without you narrating my feelings? Next, you’ll pop up at breakfast while I’m eating to tell me I’m hungry.”
“Gosh, that’s an awful lot of words.”
He glares at me, which amuses me for some reason. I’m sure many people are wary of Mac, but I’m not one of them. His attitude is usually so king-of-the-world that it’s probably good for him to receive some pushback occasionally.
He hesitates and then says reluctantly, “I do have a problem that I can’t work out.”
I come up on one elbow in enthusiasm. “Ooh, tell me. I might be able to help you. Would you like financial or personal advice?”
“Good god. Neither ,” he says in a revolted tone that shouldn’t amuse me as much as it does.
“Your lookout,” I say peaceably. “I’m very good at giving advice.”
“I’d sooner ask an aardvark.”
“Aren’t they extinct?”
“Exactly.”
I snort, and his eyes twinkle. Then his head cocks and a funny look crosses his face. “Actually, maybe you could help me.”
“ Really ? I was half joking, but I have to tell you that I’m excited by this.” I sit up. “How?”
“I can tell you in the car. Get up, shower, and get dressed.”
“Shall we shower together? It conserves water.”
“It also consumes time,” he says, to my disappointment. “I’ll use the shower in the spare bedroom.”
Half an hour later, I wander out of the bedroom. Mac is standing in the kitchen drinking a glass of water. His hair is wet and slicked back showing the beauty of his bone structure.
“Am I dressed okay?” I ask, coming to a stop in front of him.
He sets the glass on the counter looking at my outfit of jeans and a red jumper in confusion. “You look fine.”
I cock my head. “I usually do, but should I be wearing a tutu or something?”
He blinks. “Why?”
“Well, you haven’t given me a single clue about where we’re going. It could be ballet for all I know.”
“I don’t think the ballet world is ready for your particular level of grace.”
“Hey, I’m very graceful.”
“You tripped over your shorts trying to get into bed earlier.”
I wag my finger. “That was eagerness. Not my spatial ability.”
“I’ll commit that to memory.” He taps something on his phone. “Come along. Robert is waiting.”
I follow him out of the flat sneaking a glance at the lounge as I pass by. I should be revising for my finals now. My files are sitting neatly on the dining table in there waiting for me. I give a mental shrug. They can wait. I’d rather be going on Mac’s mystery tour.
“And does Robert know where we’re going?” I ask as the lift doors open and we step in.
“Well, I always say it doesn’t hurt for the chauffeur to know the destination.”
“You think you’re funny, but you’re not.”
His chuckle is my reward.
As soon as we get into the car, Mac taps away on his phone, his forehead pleated in concentration and occasionally irritation. After a while, he puts the phone away and rests his head against the seat, staring out of the window in a return to his earlier moodiness.
“Going to tell me what the matter is?” I say cheerfully. It’s shocking how eager I am to get his attention back on me.
His gaze flicks over to me. “Pardon?”
I point at him. “What’s with the pouting? It’s like watching Project Runway only without the tantrums and excessive displays of emotion.”
The car swerves slightly, and Robert says in a choked voice, “Sorry. I was just avoiding a pothole.”
Mac narrows his eyes, and I race into speech. “If you won’t tell me, I’m afraid I’ll just have to guess.”
“Well, this should be entertaining,” he says silkily.
“Okay, but this is all your fault, so on your own head be it. You have left me no choice. We’re off to Brazil to get your bum lifted.”
He sucks in a breath, but he’s made of stern stuff, so his voice is calm when he speaks. “No.”
“No?”
“Did I stutter?”
“No, but you could definitely win an award in brevity if there was one. Okay. Not a bum lift. Are we going to Devon to milk a cow?”
“Are cows only available in Devon now? And why on earth would I wish to milk one?”
I shrug. “It’s something to do.”
“I am mentally making a note of never when it comes to letting you plan a day out.”
“Chance would be a fine thing. Okay. Then we must be going to Switzerland because you want to buy a cuckoo clock.”
“Ah, no, but I do commend your extensive geographical knowledge.”
I fall back against my seat and roll my eyes. “I give up.”
“Oh no. Please say it isn’t so.”
He looks out of the window, and I follow his gaze. We’re driving through a very pretty village that runs alongside a river. “Is that the Thames?”
“Yes.”
“And is this village where we’re going?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame. It’s really pretty.”
It’s a jumble of small cottages and Tudor white-and-black-framed houses, many of them with front gardens full of spring flowers.
Cheerful bunting is strung along many of the buildings, so they’re obviously celebrating something, and the whole place looks as clean and sparkling as if it’s gone through the washer.
We pass a small row of shops, an expensive-looking art gallery, and a couple of ancient-looking pubs.
“I bet you could get good scones here,” I say cheerfully.
His head turns slowly towards me. “Scones?”
“Yes. They’re like a cake, but yet they’re not a cake.”
“I am very aware of what a scone is.”
“You sure? You sounded a bit confused.”
He groans.
I continue to observe the street we’re driving along, noting its emptiness. “There’s no one about. That’s very creepy.”
His mouth twitches. “You can take the boy out of London?—”
“Yeah, yeah.” We pass an old hotel that looks Georgian with its multi-paned windows. Wisteria grows up its walls, the purple almost psychedelic in its brightness. “Could you live here?”
A funny look crosses his face, but he shoots his cuffs beneath his suit jacket instead of answering me. “I need to prepare you.” I open my mouth and reconsider making a joke when he shoots me a warning look.
“Okay,” I say mildly.
“I wish to buy a property near here.”
“Well, that answered me in a very roundabout way.” I remember that he’d said I might be able to help him. “Did you want to borrow some money?”
His eyebrows rise. Moments pass and I wonder if I’ve actually managed to make him speechless. Finally, he says, “I beg your pardon?”
I turn, putting my knee up on the seat. “Well, I don’t know if you’re aware, but I have got quite the nest egg now.”
“I believe I am aware of the fact,” he says dryly.
“So, I could loan you the money if you’re short.”
There’s another silence, and I can practically feel Robert’s curiosity filling the car.
“You…” Mac clears his throat. “You would do that?”
“Of course. You’ve been really good to me.”
He says gravely, “Thank you. That is quite the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me.”
“You should get out more,” I advise him.
He laughs, the humour lighting his thin, moody face for a second. “Luckily, I believe I have the funds for my plans,” he says sombrely.
Robert coughs but returns his attention quickly to the road when Mac looks at him.
“The man who owns the house is determined not to sell,” Mac tells me.
“So, why have you brought me with you?”
“Ah, you can be very engaging, Wes. I often say that.”
“You have literally never said that. In fact, last week you called me a moron.”
His mouth twitches. “Surely that can’t be true. Well, how remiss of me not to have told you that you are also very charming.”
“That’s you. Remiss.”
We leave the village behind. After a few minutes, Robert turns onto a quiet, narrow lane lined by the river on one side and trees and high walls of shrubbery on the other. He comes to a stop by a towpath that leads to the water.
“Here you are, sir,” Robert says.
“Thank you,” Mac says. “I’ll text you when we need you, Robert.” He opens the door and steps onto the towpath. I scramble to follow him, noticing there’s a boat at the end of the path, with a man behind the wheel.
Robert pulls away, and it’s so quiet that all I can hear is birdsong and the lapping of the water. Mac puts a hand on my back and steers me towards the boat.
“Are we going on that?” I ask, digging in my heels.
“No, I thought we’d stand and look at it for a while. It’s a thrilling sort of day for me.”
“Sarcasm is never attractive,” I say tartly.
He smiles. “You lie.”
I consider him. “Yeah. Probably.”
The man in the boat straightens as we come near. “Mr Reilly?”
Mac nods and greets him.