Chapter 12
Finn
I wake throbbing with it. The dream still clings to me. Theo’s lips, bare of their usual red. She’d opened for me, blue eyes locked on mine as I pushed against the plush resistance until she took all of me. The memory makes my cock twitch against the thin cotton of my boxers.
Jesus fuck.
The flat is a furnace, Theo must run her heating at tropical levels. I kicked the covers down sometime in the night, leaving me sprawled across her sofa bed in nothing but black boxers that are doing a piss-poor job of concealing my current situation.
I don’t even have jammies. But at least I’m not naked.
Elvis is curled by my feet.
I hear a soft gasp. It’s not the cat.
I open another eye, squinting against the morning light flooding through the curtains. Theo stands stock-still in the doorway between the hall and the living room, dark hair loose around her shoulders. Her gaze is riveted to my boxers, lips parted in surprise. Her pupils flare.
She likes what she sees.
The thought sends a fresh pulse of heat straight to my groin. I reposition slightly, not hiding my reaction but not flaunting it either. It’s enough to let her know I’m aware of her presence. Nothing to be ashamed of.
‘Mornin’,’ I rasp.
She startles as if I’ve fired a gun. ‘I was—’ She tips her chin toward the kitchenette. ‘Matcha…erm…or coffee?’
‘Caffeine in any form sounds brilliant.’ I stretch, arms above my head, and notice how her eyes follow the flex of muscle.
‘One sex…erm, sec. Oh god.’ Even her ears flame. She puts space between us fast and ducks behind the counter.
I grin at the ceiling. The woman who plays pool like a pro and handed me a laminated list of rules, is undone by my morning glory. It’s hilarious, fucking sweet, and deeply, viscerally satisfying.
She’s banging around in the kitchen area, clattering with mugs and spoons. Aye, she’s flustered. Theo MacMickin, professional problem-solver, is rattled by my cock – which, to be fair, is standing prouder for her than a piper on parade.
Perhaps I should feel bad. I don’t.
Perhaps I should get up, throw on a shirt, play the gentleman. I don’t do that either.
Instead, I lie here, listening to her moving around, imagining her hands shaking slightly as she measures coffee. Imagining those same hands on my skin. Between us. On me. The dream wasn’t enough. The sleep-mussed reality of her makes the throb so brutal that it might split me in two.
Elvis yawns, stretches, and pads over, head-butting my chin with a loud purr. The kettle clicks off. She’s still loitering by the sink. I have exactly two options: get up now and risk derailing her further, or stay put and torment us both.
I’m a rugby player. Careful, sensible choices? Not our thing.
Shortly before the interview, I’m in the exact same spot again.
This time, fully dressed and no longer showing off a tent.
Miracles happen. But my chest’s gone tight again.
My mind’s revving like we’re in a final scrum.
Ten minutes until the magazine crew arrives.
Ten minutes to go from ‘has been escorted out of three nightclubs’ to ‘devoted domestic boyfriend with media training’.
I need to splash water in my face. I need to…
The bathroom door is ajar. She must’ve forgotten I was here. Or maybe she never bothers fully closing the door, habit of living alone. Did she mean to leave it open…?
I drift forward before I think better of it, pulled by heat and awe and the ghost of her shampoo.
Theo stands with her back to me, wearing nothing but a black lace bra and a matching scrap of fabric that clings to the curve of her magnificent arse.
It’s round, high, and soft in a way that blows every thought clean out my skull.
My hands itch with the urge to grab. I want to kneel, to press my mouth there, and earn the right to stay.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to move, speak, exist, with that view in front of me.
It takes everything I have to wrench my eyes up and will my dick down. I only succeed with number one.
Goddammit. I should back out and apologise. I should do anything except stand here, staring at her like I’ve been booted out of heaven and someone left the door cracked open to tempt me back in.
She catches my reflection in the mirror. ‘Fuck, Finn! I told you to bloody knock.’ Her voice is edged with embarrassment, but it falters at the end. Too breathy to pass for anger.
‘Sorry.’ The word comes out rough. I take a step back, finally, guilt chasing down my spine.
She bites her bottom lip and presses her thighs together, just slightly, as if she’s trying to shut the moment down from the inside out.
Her cheeks reach a new level of beetroot, but it’s her eyes that catch me.
Dark, deep, and wide. She’s breathing harder now, nipples tight against the lace.
There’s no hiding it. It’s need. And now she doesn’t have time to conceal it.
‘Get out,’ she says, but there’s no force behind it.
‘Say it like you mean it, and I will.’
‘Finn, I…’
‘Do you want me to leave?’ I make a step forward.
‘N-no.’
We’re close enough now that I see the pulse fluttering in her throat.
‘The dress.’ She nods to a navy blue hanger on the back of the door. ‘I need help to get dressed.’
I reach for it, the fabric is smooth under my fingers.
Hips, curves, everything about her is screaming for me.
How she moves, how her body begs to be touched, and I’m fucking dying to.
She steps into the dress, her back still to me.
I hold it open, and my fingers brush against the skin of her waist as she slides her arms through.
‘Zip up, please,’ she whispers.
I gather her hair and place it over one shoulder.
The nape of her neck is exposed, goosebumps rising on her skin.
My fingers find the small metal tab at the base of her spine.
I draw it upward, watching the dress close over her back, inch by inch.
Her inhale stalls the second my knuckles graze her spine.
I take my time. The zip stops just below her shoulder blades.
I let my hand linger there, feeling the heat of her skin, the raised hair.
I lean forward until my mouth is next to her ear. ‘There.’
Her shivers ripple under my palm. It’s making me lose my mind.
‘Thank you,’ she says softly, but she doesn’t move away.
Neither do I. We stand suspended in this moment, my fingertips coasting across the bare stretch of her upper back. I could turn her around, kiss her, pin her against the sink, and hike that dress up her thighs…
The buzzer shatters the silence.
She jumps as if electrocuted, and steps away from me. ‘They’re early.’
‘They’re bastards,’ I correct, my throat tight around it.
Theo smooths her hands down the front of her dress, a gesture of composure-gathering, straightens her shoulders, and lifts her chin. I watch her transformation with awe and frustration as professional Theodora slots back into place.
‘Ready?’ she asks.
No. I’m not fucking ready. I’m the furthest thing from ready. I’m hard and aching and desperate to peel that dress right back off her soft, inviting, stunning body. To bury myself in her.
But I make myself nod. ‘Let’s give them a show.’
She steps past me. ‘That’s what we’re good at, isn’t it?’
The question hangs in the air, loaded with more meaning than either of us is ready to unpack.
The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time.
I follow her out of the bathroom, watching the sway of her hips in that navy dress. No, we didn’t cross the line yet. But we sure as hell blurred the shit out of it.
While the journalist scribbles her notes, I turn to Theo, who’s perched on the arm of her mustard chair. Her hair’s up in the usual high ponytail, all shine and swing. Hard not to think about pulling it backwards, while I…
It’s going smoothly. Theo’s been a revelation. Sweet, thoughtful, the perfect girlfriend. A performance so convincing it’s making me question my sanity.
‘That’s it,’ the photographer coos. ‘Now Theo, lean in a bit. Like you’re about to tell him a secret.’
Theo moves closer and her knee brushes mine.
The contact lights me up from the inside, hunger licking through my system – that low, dirty pull I’ve been trying not to feed.
Her eyes meet mine, and my chest goes tight in that way it does around her.
As if she’s reaching into something I didn’t give her permission to touch but let her anyway.
I’ve never felt something even remotely like it.
And fuck me, for half a second I want to kiss her and stake my claim right there in front of the whole damn crew.
‘Perfect!’ The camera clicks rapidly, and the photographer seems happy.
‘Now Finn,’ the journalist asks, ‘tell me again what drew you to Theo initially?’
I’ve answered this question three different ways already. Each time, I’ve dug deeper, said more than I meant to. Some form of truth is seeping out between rehearsed lines.
‘Other than she’s the prettiest girl in Scotland?
Her competence.’ I don’t break eye contact with Theo.
‘She walks into a room and everyone knows she’s got it handled.
And she doesn’t take any of my shite.’ I pause, watching her pupils dilate slightly.
‘I love how she sees through the rugby rebel act.’
‘Mmm, that’s sweet.’ The journalist keeps writing in her old school notebook, phone recording on the table beside it. ‘And Theo, explain again what made you forgive Finn after the scandal?’
Theo’s smile softens. She finds my fingers and holds my hand. ‘He’s so much more than his persona or his mistakes,’ she says. ‘He owns them, he’s trying. That’s rare in a man.’
My chest locks up. She’s so bloody good at this. I almost believe she means it.
‘One last shot,’ the photographer announces for the third time. ‘I want you both on the sofa. Finn, sit normally. Theo, could you sit on his lap? I want you to look at him as though he’s the only man in the world.’
We rearrange ourselves. Theo settles on my thighs, angling her body towards mine. Her hand rests on my chest, right over my thundering heart. She must feel it, the way it’s trying to break through like it’s charging a try line.
‘Now look at each other,’ the photographer instructs. ‘I want to see the connection. The intimacy.’
Theo’s already watching me, blue eyes wide and unguarded. For nearly two hours, I’ve been telling strangers how much I adore this woman. How she grounds me and makes me want to be better. How there’s no one whose opinion matters more to me, no one I want to make laugh more than her.
And as I stare into her eyes, the words echo back with weight I didn’t expect. The truth burrows under my skin. I wasn’t faking a single syllable.
‘Super!’ The camera clicks again. ‘The chemistry between you two is electric.’
I disagree. It’s not electric. It’s a fucking power grid meltdown.
Theo’s gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second. Her lips part slightly. The hand on my chest curls, fingers bunching my shirt. A tiny, involuntary movement.
Real. That was real.
Unless it wasn’t. Unless she’s just that good.
Too good for me in a million ways.
‘I think we’ve got it,’ the journalist announces, and closes her notebook with a satisfied snap. ‘You two are absolute gold. The redemption angle, the forgiveness, the moving in together – it’s a perfect escapism story for our readers.’
Narrative. Story. Fiction.
Theo’s hand falls away from my chest. The loss is physical, cold rushing in the second she lets go. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say my body’s still reaching for her.
‘Thanks for being so generous with your time,’ the journalist adds. ‘The feature will run next week. We’ll send copies, of course.’
Theo stands, smoothly transitioning into hostess mode. ‘Can I offer you both another coffee before you go?’
‘No, we should get back to the office,’ the journalist says, and gathers her things. ‘But thank you for welcoming us into your home. It’s been lovely.’
Lovely. What an inadequate word for the riot that’s been raging inside me all morning.
The two women leave in a flurry of thank-yous and polished smiles. The door closes. A hush drops, thick and suffocating.
Theo leans against the wall. ‘That went well.’
‘Aye.’ My voice sounds strange to my own ears.
She pushes off, and brushes past me to start tidying the living room. ‘They seemed to buy it.’
‘They weren’t the only ones.’
She pauses, a cushion in her hands. ‘What?’
I scrub a hand over my face. ‘Nothing. Just knackered. Have to go to training.’
She sizes me up for a moment. There’s a wariness in her eyes, a careful distance that wasn’t there during the interview. The performance is over, the curtain has fallen.
‘You were good,’ she says finally. ‘Very convincing.’
‘So were you. Oscar-worthy, in fact.’
She smiles, all surface. ‘That’s the job, isn’t it? Making people believe.’
A job. Right. That’s all this will ever be. What a wee shame.
Sure, I told myself I wouldn’t drag her into my mess. But I’d be lying if I said part of me didn’t want to throw every rule out the window, pull her in, and see what fucking happens.