Chapter 14
Finn
I’ve stopped fighting the hard-on. That’s life now, sharing space, leftover pizza, and daily life with Theodora MacMickin.
Have I fantasised about her lips like a teenage boy with broadband for the first time?
Aye.
Did I think kissing her would rewire my entire nervous system?
Fuck no.
But it did.
Four days after that night and she’s barely acknowledged me since, as if she’s afraid I’ll read her mind. Or worse, she’ll read mine.
I’m a desperate man. But at least I think I’m not alone in that. She’s taken the Rabbit back to the bedroom.
Christ, I’m fucking aching when I think about her hips grinding up, thighs braced wide, the Rabbit pinned between them. Head tipped back, lips trembling, coming hard with my name stuck halfway to a moan.
I’ve got a bowtie slowly strangling the last of my common sense, and still, all I can think about is her coming. What the hell is this with us? There’s only one thing I know for certain: it’s not fake anymore. If it ever was.
I’m sitting on the edge of her sofa in a rented tux, sweating through the shirt and praying she doesn’t walk out in something that’ll finish me off.
I’d fuck her through the wall if she’d let me.
Hard and fast or slow and deep, over and over.
But I also want her curled up against me after.
My nose in her hair. Her breath on my neck.
I want to spoon-feed her ice cream and lick it off her tits.
I love how she takes a beamer each time she realises that I saw her hard nipples through the cotton of her sleeping shirt.
Jesus, I want to spend the rest of my life on this sofa bed with her and Elvis and die a happy man.
It’s like my heart is having a boner. And that’s new.
It’s also stupid. Far out of my comfort zone – and way out of my league.
Theo’s the sort of woman who owns nice mugs and pays a mortgage.
She’s got a brain as sharp as a scalpel and eyes that could slice through steel.
She gets things. Not only facts, but people.
She watches me as if she’s working out the angles and sees the cracks I’ve spent years trying to plaster over.
And I keep forgetting to be scared of all of that.
Because when she kissed me back, she didn’t hesitate.
I’ve never been kissed like that. Her lips…
Lush and swollen. The first contact was all heat, a soft, slick drag that caught on the seam of my mouth.
Her breath hitting the back of my throat just before her tongue flicked out.
One slow glide, barely inside, to taste me and make me chase her for more.
Her lip caught between my teeth. I didn’t bite, didn’t dare, but I thought about it.
Thought about what she’d do if I did. My cock throbbed in time with the pull of her mouth, and I swear I forgot where we were.
All I knew is that I was safe and powerful, full and hungry at the same time.
She made me feel this way.
I know, it’s all happening fast. But at the same time it feels as if it has already happened, has always been this way.
Now I’m supposed to get through an entire black-tie gala without thinking about that mouth.
That kiss. That noise she made when she opened for me.
Christ. That night… She listened. Didn’t jump or run.
Just held me. For the first time in – I don’t even know – I didn’t feel like a fuck-up or a disappointment or a half-moulded version of a man. I felt wanted.
But that feeling? It’s a slippery bastard. And it’s been four days. She hasn’t brought it up. Maybe she’s changed her mind and regrets it. Or she kissed me like that because she was sorry for me.
Naw.
Except…maybe.
I keep telling myself it’s nothing and I’m reading too much into it. But my brain’s got a sick sense of humour and a long memory. And this woman – this perfect, sharp-edged, soft-curved miracle – she could break me with one look if she wanted to.
So I’m playing it cool. Sitting here in this monkey suit, fiddling with my cufflink like I’m not seconds from losing my grip.
Then I hear the soft pat of her bare feet on the floor. My head snaps up.
It’s not a dress. It’s a fucking trap.
Pale green, almost silver in the light, the silk flows over her like it’s got somewhere to be.
Every inch clings. Hips, waist, tits… There’s nothing hidden and nothing asking for permission.
It doesn’t hug her curves, it celebrates them.
One side of her dark hair is clipped back with an antique silver hair comb, showing the line of her neck.
The rest spills over her shoulder in shiny dark waves.
When she turns, the silk pulls across her arse like it’s holding on for dear life.
Every step sends it stroking her thighs, smooth as poured cream, tempting as fuck.
Holy hell.
I think my heart just came in my shirt.
I blink, trying to focus on anything but her dress, her.
As if.
She fumbles with her earring. ‘You clean up nicely. Very Bond.’ Her voice wavers on the last syllable.
Christ, she’s nervous – and it floors me like a tackle I didn’t see coming.
I get up, the tux suddenly feeling too tight, too formal. ‘Wow. You are…’ I trail off, shaking my head. My vocabulary shrinks to caveman grunts when faced with her looking like that. ‘That dress should be illegal.’
I follow her into the hallway.
‘I’m gonna say only one thing, Theo.’ I let my breath skate over her ear as I help her into her coat. ‘I’ll have to fake fuck all tonight.’
Stirling castle is a fairy tale come to life.
Purple and gold lights on the stone walls and timber beams of the Great Hall.
The SRU’s Burns Night Fundraiser is apparently a full medieval fever dream, hosted by some bigwig from the Scottish Rugby Union I’ve already forgotten the name of.
Judging by the line-up of sponsors, donors, and the number of kilts paired with Rolexes, this isn’t exactly your local pub ceilidh.
Long banquet tables stretch down the middle of the hall, all deep green fabric, silver cutlery polished enough to check your teeth in, and flower arrangements bigger than grown men’s torsos. Pink roses, purple thistles, dark green ferns.
The whole thing kicked off earlier with a piper and the Selkirk Grace, followed by the Address to a Haggis delivered by a bloke who went full theatrics with the knife. He practically stabbed the poor thing into submission.
Now we’re between courses and halfway through the speeches. Someone just quoted A Man’s a Man for A’ That with full chest.
Charlie and Brodie are across the way, eyes following everything with a hint of wariness.
Can’t fault them for it. Her dickhead of an ex-fiancé is here, beaming with his shiny new wife-to-be.
A TV presenter or something. Brodie’s always a bit murdery in a crowd, but tonight he’s dialled to Maximum Menace.
Charlie matches him glare for glare in a red velvet number that could start fights on its own. They look ready to sack a city.
Scottie hasn’t said a word. Just looms, brooding into his whisky like the glass insulted his maw. That’s atypical. He probably misses living with me. James keeps twitching his phone on and off, barely glancing up. If he gets one more text, I might hurl it into the Forth myself.
And then there’s Theo, sitting next to me, close enough to smell her perfume. She hasn’t said much since we arrived, but I can sense her. Every breath. Every time her fingers tense against her napkin. Back straight, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the room.
So I lean in, enough for our shoulders to brush. ‘Relax, List Girl. The worst is almost over.’
I rest my hand on the top rail of her chair as if I’ve done it a hundred times. No one’s watching us right now, but it doesn’t matter. I do it anyway, in case they are. Or in case she needs it.
Her hand loosens in her lap. ‘I swear, one more speech and I’ll stab the cake fork into my ear.’
I laugh. And because I’m a wee rascal, I also kiss her temple.
‘Finn!’
‘All for the show, darlin’.’
A new suit takes the podium at the top of the hall. He’s grey at the temples, with the kind of sombre face that tells you the fun part of the evening is over. If there ever was such a thing.
‘Tonight isn’t only about celebrating Robert Burns or our sport,’ he begins, his voice echoing in the hall. ‘It’s about remembering why we’re here. What we’re donating to. This year, we lost a bright talent. A young man who fought battles far from the pitch.’
The air in the room changes. The cheerful clatter of forks and glasses goes quiet.
‘Liam Kennedy was a warrior for his club. But he struggled in silence.’
The name hangs there. I remember him, a winger from Glasgow. Fast as lightning. Died last spring, far too early.
‘We’re here to raise awareness for mental illness among brilliant athletes. Depression kills.’
Next to me, Theo goes rigid.
And it’s not a subtle change. It’s a total system shutdown.
One second she’s a breathing woman in a dress that could make a monk break his vows; the next she’s a marble statue.
Her hand, resting on the table, curls into a fist so tight her knuckles are white peaks.
She’s stopped breathing, I’m sure of it.
My own chest constricts. Fuck, I know that expression. The one where you leave your body so you don’t have to feel what’s happening inside it.
My hand finds her thigh. Not for the crowd. For her. I hope it’s an anchor. I squeeze gently, a silent question. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to notice. Her violet eyes are pinned on the speaker, but they’re blank and vacant.
‘We’re here to ensure no one else feels they have to face that darkness alone,’ the man continues. I should remember his name, but I can’t. Middle-aged white dudes all look the same to me.
I catch a strand of her hair between my fingers, twirling it once. ‘You with me, MacMickin?’ I keep my voice a low rumble.
Nothing. She’s a million miles away.