Chapter 11 #3
“I can usually manage to do it at all hours of the day and night,” I say mildly.
His eyes narrow. “Why are all the doors open and you’re buried under a duvet?”
“I wanted to hear the rain.” He stares at me as if I’ve spoken a different language.
“Don’t worry. It’s not from one of our beds.
I borrowed it from another bedroom I found on a second look through the apartment.
” I shake my head. “Two bedrooms seemed like overkill. I don’t even know what to say about a third. ”
“I’m sure that’s a fib. You always appear to have something to say about any given subject under the sun.”
He tosses his bag on the chair and drifts over to the window.
The promised storm rolled in a couple of hours ago, and I’d had a front-row seat as thunder rumbled and Paris lit up with lightning flashes.
Now it’s just drizzling, and the city is exactly what he called it—The City of Lights.
It’s like someone threw a net of twinkling fairy lights over it.
He rubs his neck, a sure sign of tension, and I sit up, throwing off the duvet. “Come here,” I say.
“Did I miss the use of the word please, or did you just decide not to go with manners today?”
I roll my eyes. “You wouldn’t know what to do if I used them, so what’s the point?”
“Very true.” I pat my leg in invitation, and he narrows his eyes. “I am not a dog, so why are you making that ridiculous gesture?”
“Because I’m going to rub your neck,” I say patiently. I reach for the small leather bag on the side table. “I found this in the bathroom, and I’ve been going through it. There’s some hand lotion in here somewhere. Did you know they even give us hotel water bottles. They’re well posh.”
He drifts closer and I note that his eyes are twinkling, perhaps losing some of their tiredness. “That’s probably why the room is forty-five thousand euros a night.”
My hand slips, and I drop the bag. “You’re joking?” He shakes his head. “What the hell , Mac? That’s a deposit for a house you just spaffed away.”
“Your vocabulary is just stunning . Absolutely stunning.”
“Well, it’s your money, I suppose,” I say disapprovingly. “Spaff away.”
“Thank you so much,” he says silkily.
I triumphantly exclaim when I find the hand lotion. “Come and sit at my feet,” I order. I’m amazed when he does as I say and settles in an elegant sprawl at my feet.
He directs a sparkling gaze at me. “That shut you up.”
“It certainly did.”
He rubs his neck again. “Although I can’t imagine you can do much to ease this knot. I need a… Oh my god, that’s so fucking good,” he groans as I start to massage his neck.
“Bloody hell, you’re tight,” I say, digging my fingertips into muscle and finding knots of tension. “How are you still upright? You must have such a headache.”
“A bit of one,” he admits. “I thought it was the company this evening.”
“Mine?”
“Good god, no.” I smile at the honest surprise in his voice. “No, the men I had dinner with. Even after five hours, I don’t think there was a single interesting thing said.”
“So why did you stay?”
“Business,” he says simply.
I huff and carry on the massage. He sinks farther into me, leaning against my leg with a tired sigh. I gentle my grip a little as the knots ease. The smell of lavender and coconut fills the air.
“You’re right. It is nice,” he finally says in a dreamy voice.
“What is?”
He waves a hand at the doors. The curtains billow in the breeze, and thunder rumbles far away in the distance. “The sound of the rain. I don’t think I’ve stayed still long enough to listen to that for ages.”
“You certainly don’t stay still enough,” I scold. “Always on the go and never sitting down.”
“I’m sitting down now. You made me do it with your officious manner. Anyway, the business doesn’t run itself.”
“And maybe that’s your fault.”
“Pardon?” He doesn’t sound offended, just curious, so I elaborate.
“Surely, the mark of a good businessman is being able to handpick good people to delegate to?”
“Delegate?”
“You probably need to look that word up in the dictionary,” I say tartly. I recoil, laughing, when he pinches me. “Ouch, that hurt.”
“Serves you right.” Silence falls again, and then he stirs. “What were you reading?”
“Eh?” I’m preoccupied with the feel of him under my hands. It’s like stroking a tiger who might turn around and bite my head off at any minute. “Oh, it’s The Da Vinci Code .”
“Good grief, that’s old. Why are you reading that?”
“A tutor at uni was on about it, and it sounded interesting. Ironic, really, because he was criticising it. It’s been ages since I read a fiction book because of my uni work, so I downloaded it earlier.”
“The Rosslyn Chapel is beautiful and a fascinating place. I must take you at some point—” He stops talking abruptly as if he hadn’t meant to make that offer.
“That would be nice. I’m really enjoying the book. Have you read it?”
“No, I never had the time either. I haven’t picked up a book in a while, which is sad, because I used to love reading.” He stills when I start to open his shirt. “What are you doing?” The last word is muffled by a yawn.
“Pushing your shirt to one side so I can get at your shoulders. They’re as tense as a nun in a nightclub.”
He chuckles and leans forward, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it off.
“Even better,” I say approvingly at the sight of his broad shoulders and silky skin. I fill my hands with more lotion and start to rub his shoulders.
“You have a nice touch, Wes.”
I smile. “I used to massage my mum’s shoulders when I was little. I’m sure at times I was half crippling her because I was a very enthusiastic child, but she never let on.”
“Maybe she was enjoying just being with you.” There’s a funny note in his voice. He says quickly, “So have you seen anything of Paris, or have you been in the suite all this time?”
“When you left, I went for a long walk to stretch my legs and get the layout of the place. I found the Louvre and the Tuileries Gardens. They’re beautiful. I think I’m going there tomorrow. Then it started to rain, so I came back here, and Pierre got my dinner.”
“The butler?”
“That’s him. Nice bloke.”
“What did you have?”
“Oh, some lush langoustines to start, followed by sea bass in a green sauce which was nice, despite the colour, and then a profiterole éclair which was even nicer.”
“Despite the colour?” There’s a note of amusement in his voice.
“Well, usually if food is green, it’s not a good sign.”
“After your dinner, I presume the hotel ordered an emergency supply of ingredients to replenish its depleted stores.”
“So many words for such a little laugh.” I pinch him, enjoying his laughter.
He looks up at me, and the lines have gone from his face. He looks rumpled and almost sweet if you could ever use that word about him. His eyebrow rises, and I realise I’ve been staring at him for too long.
“Did you eat?” I ask quickly.
He grimaces. “I had a bit of dinner. I wasn’t very hungry. What are you doing?”
I’ve reached to grab the phone and the room service menu. “Ordering some dessert for a midnight snack.”
“Oh no. I don’t want anything.”
He stands up and stretches, and I swallow hard as I watch the muscles move in his long body. I quickly bring my mind back to task and order some desserts.
He shakes his head when I put the phone down. “That’s enough dessert for an army.”
“Well, if they can march on—” I check the menu. “—rhubarb souffle tart, mille-feuille, and French toast, more power to them. I ordered enough for two.” I put up a hand as he starts to object. “Just know if you don’t eat it, I can easily put it away.”
He hesitates, casting a look at his bag, and I wonder if he’s about to start working again.
It’s not a move I approve of, but I won’t say anything.
“Are you going to do some more work?” I ask, bracing myself for him to move away.
It’s so lovely to have him here. The suite seems full of colour and life again.
For a quiet man, he certainly makes an impact.
He bites his lip. “I should do some while it’s quiet. I have a meeting first thing in the morning, and I need to go over the notes.”
I make myself shrug casually. “Or you could go and have a shower, eat dessert with me, and relax for a change. You’ll work better tomorrow with a clearer head, Mac.”
To my surprise, he nods. “You’re right.”
“Am I? What a novel concept.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he says before leaving the room.
Several minutes later, the desserts are delivered and Mac returns to the lounge.
He’s dressed in checked pyjama shorts and a white T-shirt.
I’ve never seen him in anything this casual, and the sight of him hits me as being more intimate than when he’s naked.
His hair is wet and brushed back from his face, showing its thin patrician lines.
The bruise-coloured shadows under his eyes make my heart hurt.
I pat the sofa instead of fussing. “Come and sit down.” He glances at his messenger bag, but then, surprising me again, he settles back on the sofa, easing into the cushions with a sigh. “God, I’m tired.”
“I know.” I pull the trolley towards me. The desserts are laid out on it, looking like something from a food magazine. “Want some?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Are you going to feed me?”
I eye him. “I did consider it,” I say in a spirit of honesty. “But I thought you might threaten to shove the cutlery where the sun doesn’t shine, so I’ll give you your own spoon instead.”
His face lights up in a smile, and he takes the plate from me. The rhubarb tart is a pretty pastel pink against the white china. “I’ll try it, but you’ll probably have to eat most of it yourself.”
“I can certainly do that,” I assure him, making a start on the French toast.
Five minutes later, he sits back, rubbing his flat stomach. “Christ, I ate all of it.”
I wink at him. “It certainly looks like you did.”
“It’s like you’re Satan with a surfer hairdo.”
“Do not knock my waves. Did you enjoy the tart?”
“It was very nice, but don’t get any ideas about running my life.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” I say peaceably. “The House of Lords would struggle with the concept.”
“I should go and do some work,” he says almost reluctantly. I look at his tired face and make a decision. Reaching for a cushion, I put it on my lap and gesture to him. “Come here.”
“Why?” he asks warily.
“You can rest your head in my lap.”
His face clears. “Oh, did you want a blowjob? You only had to ask.”
“No.” I consider that and amend it to, “Well, I do usually want a blowjob, but not at the moment. Put your head in my lap. You can watch the storm and listen to the rain better.”
“I’m not sure,” he says, looking as uneasy as if I’ve asked him to tap dance on a high wire.
I roll my eyes. “Just do it.”
“Thank you, Nike.”
Finally, he does as I order, lying full length on the sofa and resting his head on the cushion. I reach for the duvet and draw it over him, so he doesn’t get cold. After a moment, he releases a long sigh, and his body relaxes.
I raise my hand tentatively and stroke the thick black strands of hair from his face. His eyes, which had slid closed, open a little, but he doesn’t object, so I send my fingers through his hair. The silky strands are thick and damp, and I stroke them, digging my fingers into his scalp.
“That’s nice,” he says, his voice slurred.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Read to me.”
I blink. “Read what?”
“ The Da Vinci Code .”
“Okay, if that’s what you want.”
“But don’t stop stroking my hair.”
“You can take the man to Paris, but he still stays bloody bossy.”
He gives a sleepy chuckle, and I open my iPad one-handed while still stroking his hair.
I start to read, keeping my voice low, and his pleasure is almost a physical presence in the room.
I wonder when someone last touched him with no agenda other than comfort.
My guess is no one. I feel a sense of fierce pride, but I keep my voice steady as I continue to read.
At first, he asks questions about the plot—sleepy questions, but they still prove how sharp his mind is. After a while, he falls silent, and his body continues to relax. I realise with shock that he’s fallen asleep.
I stop reading, and the room fills with the soft sound of rain hitting the windowpane, the gusts of wind, and the distant sound of traffic.
I carry on stroking his hair, keeping my touch so gentle that it’s barely there.
I watch his sleeping face, feeling as though he’s given me a gift.
He has such a strong, commanding presence; this is like coming across a lion snoozing.
The ding of a message startles me, and I reach for my phone seeing Tyler’s contact picture.
I’m going to bed. Night, Wes.
A wave of relief floods through me. His communication has been sporadic over the last couple of weeks. I won’t hear from him for a few days, and then he’ll send a couple of texts, and I’ll relax for a bit.
I tap quickly on my phone.
Goodnight.
Then I sit looking at the text thread. It’s time.
When I get back, I need to see him for myself.
Then I can judge what’s really going on.
I can’t stay mad at him forever. Tyler’s always been there for me and now it’s my turn.
I need to speak to him and see what he’s doing about the money.
If he’s arranged a payment plan, then maybe I could give him and Cath a deposit for a house. I’ve certainly got enough money now.
I touch the screen when it goes dark, looking at my brother’s picture.
He smiles up at me—his usual crooked grin with that familiar edge of worry at the edge.
I feel a wave of love towards him mixed with the worry that I’m trying to ignore.
Nevertheless, it lingers there like grit on my skin as I ask myself the question I’ve been trying to ignore.
What if he’s still gambling? I shake my head.
He promised he wouldn’t, and he’s never broke his word to me. I have to believe him.
I toss the phone on the table and snuggle down.
For tonight, I have this—the feel of Mac against me, the quietness of the suite, and the relief of knowing that Tyler is safe.
Eventually, tiredness steals over me. It’s hardly surprising, given I’ve been going full throttle with very little sleep and exams, and then today was a whirl of travel and new sights.
I slide down on the sofa, putting my arm over him when he moves with me.
We end up in a cosy sprawl on the wide sofa with his head on my chest. I cuddle into him, pulling the duvet over us like a cosy cave.
Then I lie quietly, listening to him breathe.
Outside the window, the City of Lights is a mass of energy and nightlife, but I wouldn’t be anywhere other than here with this man.