Chapter 17
Theo
A purr loud enough to register on the Richter scale wakes me. For a dizzying second, I think it’s me.
Then I open my eyes.
There’s a rugby player’s arm pinning me to my sofa bed, and he has my cat’s arse in his face.
The grey Edinburgh morning filters through my curtains, highlighting the chaos we’ve made. Duvet, blankets, and sheets twisted around our legs. My hoodie crumpled on the floor beside his shirt, trousers, and bow tie.
Finn smells of my cherry soap, his own skin, and the musky scent of sleep after sex. Elvis is loafing on his chest like Finn’s a brand-new, premium-grade human mattress.
My body is a roadmap of last night. A dull, delicious ache is settled deep in my bones. I still feel his mouth on my nipples, the pressure of his hips, the scrape of his stubble against my neck. I’m warm from the inside out and sore in places that haven’t been sore in ages. And never like that.
I seriously fucked Finn Lennox.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to get anywhere near this real and physical and emotional.
My brain, a command centre of schedules and contingency plans, feels like it’s been put through a spin cycle. This whole arrangement was for headlines. For damage control. It was not for mind-melting orgasms and whispered confessions in the dark. Not for…whatever the hell this is.
A quiet, curious ache builds inside me. Last night wasn’t just sex. One thousand per cent not. But what else? And what now?
I need to get up. I need a bit of distance to clear my head.
With surgical level care, I try to ease myself from his embrace, lifting his massive arm by degrees. The movement is glacial. I’m afraid to wake him up before I’ve had the chance to collect myself.
Elvis slits open a single green eye, glares at me for disturbing his new favourite sleeping spot, and resumes his motorboat purr.
The wee turncoat.
Finn stirs and pulls me tighter against him.
I go still, trapped in the circle of his arm.
His chin tucks into the space above my head.
The panic rabbiting through my chest softens.
My cat, who hisses at the postie, jumps any boiler man, and bit Gil’s ankle twice, is using Finn Lennox as a heated luxury cat bed.
And I…don’t hate it. Actually, I might be melting internally –into soup with heart-shaped noodles.
Wow, MacMickin. How the mighty have fallen.
Sure, I’m still afraid. But there’s something deeper under it now. A glow that spreads through me like butter on hot toast.
The Stirling Rebels’ wild child flanker made me hot chocolate last night. With marshmallows. After watching me snot-sob and crumble into a million pieces. He took care of me like no one ever has, and the least I can do is return the favour.
Second attempt at sneaking out from under this arm and I’m prying myself free with the stealth of a thief disarming a security system. One leg, then the other. His arm flops onto the empty space I’ve vacated, and he mumbles something before burying his face in my pillow.
He’s cute. I can’t believe that I think he’s cute. But he is.
I sit up in slow-motion, and grab my hoodie from the floor, where we dropped it last night.
The memory sends a shiver across my skin that has nothing to do with the morning chill.
I pull it over my head and let the cotton fleece fall to mid-thigh, enough coverage to preserve a last shred of dignity.
What dignity? The one you gave up on your back last night when you begged to be impaled by his huge rod?
The wooden floorboards creak beneath my bare feet.
I wince, pausing mid-step like a cartoon burglar, but Finn doesn’t stir again.
His hair is flattened on one side, stubble darkening his jaw, one tattooed arm flung across his eyes.
He doesn’t even wear his sleeping mask. The sheet barely covers his hip, revealing the sharp cut of muscle.
I tear my focus off him to literally anything else. If I keep obsessively staring at him, I won’t get anything done ever again.
I tiptoe to the kitchen area, wincing as I open the cupboard door with its tell-tale squeak.
My matcha tin sits on the second shelf, nestled between the Earl Grey and the chamomile.
I pull it down. Two scoops of bright green powder into the bowl.
A splash of cold water. I whisk in tight W motions until the paste is smooth.
It’s an absurd amount of effort for a drink, I know, but the ritual calms me.
I heat the oat milk in a small saucepan, careful not to let it boil. Patience is key. Too hot and it scorches, too cool and the matcha won’t bloom properly. I’ve perfected this over hundreds of mornings, calibrated to my exact preferences.
But will he like it?
The thought catches me off guard, this sudden concern for someone else’s taste buds.
‘Is that a potion to turn me into a frog?’ His sleepy voice is a low gravelly rumble from the sofa bed.
I startle, nearly sloshing the matcha over the rim of the mug. Finn is propped up on one elbow, sheet pooled around his waist, hair sticking up. Elvis has migrated to his side.
‘Frog, prince… Tomato, potato.’ I pour hot oat milk into the mug, and the green liquid swirls into a pale jade.
‘That’s not how the saying goes.’ He scrubs a hand across his jaw, his gaze honing in with amusement. ‘Are you hiding behind that counter again, MacMickin?’
‘What?’ I let out a short laugh. ‘No? I’m making a beverage. It’s what people do in kitchens. Matcha. It’s green tea. Healthy. Lots of antioxidants.’
‘Mhm.’ He stretches with a yawn and the sheet sinks lower, clinging to the sharp V of his hips.
My eyes drift to the intricate ink swirling over his body, the chaotic tapestry of his life story written on his skin. Another tattoo I hadn’t noticed peeks out along his hip bone.
Shit. He’s so hot, it’s literally unfair. What am I meant to do with all that…man in my bed?
Well… You could… Stop it!
He sits and swings his legs off the sofa. ‘So, about last night…’
‘Good point. We should probably talk about it.’ I force my gaze back to my matcha.
’I’d say so, aye.’
I refuse to glance his way, but I hear his smirk.
‘It was…erm…exceptionally good sex.’ I take a gulp of matcha. ‘We’re unusually compatible in that area.’
‘Agreed.’ He saunters towards the counter, utterly unselfconscious about his state of undress.
He’s very, very naked and impressive even now. I know his other state, and I’m still sore from it.
‘You’re blushing, Theo. Any indecent thoughts you’d like to share?’ He leans against the counter next to me. Naked, mind you.
‘No. Why? No.’ I hand him the mug.
‘Cheers.’ He takes a cautious sip. ‘This is actually nice.’
‘So was last night… It was really fabulous sex.’
‘It was really fabulous everything,’ he corrects, voice dropping an octave.
The quiet certainty catches on something deep inside me.
‘I know.’ The words come out sharper than intended, so I soften my voice. ‘But this is still a temporary, mutually beneficial arrangement to save both our arses. We aren’t together-together, are we?’
‘The papers think we are boyfriend and girlfriend.’ He stretches again, a long, languid movement that shows off every sharp line of his torso. ‘So does my team.’
I’m actively drooling over the man who is systematically dismantling my life’s operating system. This is fine. Totally fine.
‘And what do you think?’ I hate that I ask.
‘Last night wasn’t for the headlines and neither is this morning.’ He sets his mug down and comes closer. His eyes are impossibly blue in the pale morning light. ‘What I think is that we are whatever we want to be.’
‘I’m not sure I’m ready for a full-on relationship, Finn. I’m not in the right place, mentally.’
‘I get it. But in another way, you are in the right place. You’re here with me.’ He steps behind me and digs his fingers into my hair, finding the worn-out scrunchie. He tugs it out and my mane tumbles over my shoulders. ‘Better.’
‘I have to admit, I do enjoy spending time with you.’ The words tumble out before I can analyse them to death.
‘Same.’ His breath tickles my ear.
‘So what the hell does that make us?’ I lean back against his chest.
His lips map the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, sending currents skittering all over. ‘It means we’ll keep doing what we’re doing, follow the plan until the last game of the season and see where we stand.’
I reach back, finding the nape of his neck, and let my fingers play with the soft hair there. ‘A situationship?’
He trails his hand beneath my hoodie and up, cupping my breast with his callused palm. I’m dripping and pulsing, and he’s hardly even touched me. This has never happened before.
‘Naw, this feels better. More exclusive.’ One pinch, just shy of pain, and my nipple beads hard against his fingers. ‘More like a Theofinnship.’
‘That’s not a real word.’ I have to keep myself from panting.
‘It is now.’ He grazes my earlobe with his lips. ‘I just invented it.’
I rock back and feel him, hard and impatient.
‘Tell me…’ He kisses the pulse point below my ear. ‘Does that sound good, List Girl? Or do you need a full risk assessment before we proceed?’
Slowly, he runs his other palm up my thigh. The heat of it sinks into my skin. He’s still behind me, hips aligned to mine.
‘Okay, no. I’m good. This is good. So good.’ The words rush out too fast and too honest.
I feel his smile as his touch climbs, stealing every thought except yes, there, more. When his hand presses on my mound, it’s more than skin on skin. It’s him saying, ‘Feel that? That’s where you’re mine.’ And god, I do. Every heartbeat throbs against his hand, begging.
‘Sore?’ The first pass of his fingers is gentle. ‘Tell me if it’s too much. But don’t lie. I’ll know.’
I suck in a breath, eyes snapping shut.
‘Knew you’d do that, close your eyes like it’ll hide how much you like my hands on you. Too bad I felt you lift into my touch.’
He presses a single finger to my clit and spins the lightest circle.