Chapter Twenty-Four
CHAPTER
24
Kit looks more at home in the study—leather studded sofas and chairs, a double-sided timber desk, floor-to-ceiling colour-coded bookshelves—than I’d expect a Viking to look. He considers the ornaments on the desk as I shut the door behind us.
‘Did you know Mum was going to announce the Summerfield project?’
‘I suspected it.’
‘Why accept her invitation? Why play into it?’
His eyes narrow. ‘I covered for you.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Erik asked your mother if she had access to your father’s film. He told her about the documentary.’
‘She didn’t have to know I was involved.’
‘I should lie?’
‘Not tell the whole truth, that’s all. Just until tonight was over.’
‘Lie.’
I rub my hands down my dress ‘What if the cameraman saw us come in here?’
‘What if he did?’
‘He might think …’
He lifts a brow. ‘What?’
‘People might gossip.’ Behind Kit, there’s a photo of my mother at the races, wearing an enormous black and gold hat and holding the Flemington Cup. The horse standing next to her is barely in the frame.
‘Astrid asked whether I was back with Chloe. Is that what you think?’
‘It shouldn’t affect me one way or the other if—’
‘I don’t want her.’
I turn away, link my hands, pretend an interest in the photo. ‘You spoke well tonight. And you helped me out. Thank you.’
‘Mackenzie.’ He’s closer than he was. ‘Turn around.’
My throat is suddenly tight. ‘I don’t think I should.’
‘You’re not crying, are you?’ ‘I never cry.’
He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘Prove it.’
Swallowing hard, I do as he asks. His chest lifts and falls. The middle button of his creased linen shirt is blue like his eyes. I’ve missed him. A lot. Way too much.
‘Why won’t you look at me?’ He speaks softly.
‘My mother …’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t like her.’
‘She’s manipulative.’
‘You don’t know her.’
‘Now you defend her?’
‘No, but …’
‘You don’t want me to say anything you might agree with.’
‘No. Yes.’
When he picks up my hand and brings it to his mouth, his breath is warm on my skin. My legs wobble, my thighs tingle. He searches my face and then, tugging at my hand, he leads me to a dark brown sofa with dimples. Another tug and we sit side by side, our forearms lined up. My wrist is up against his, but the cuff of his shirt is between us. I want his pulse beating on mine. I want—
‘We have to work together,’ he says quietly. ‘This …’ He lifts our hands, talks against the pad of my thumb. ‘We have to deal with this.’
‘Yes?’ I squeak. ‘Yes.’ I pull my hand free but, as if of its own volition, it goes to his thigh.
His mouth is tight. Is he angry again? ‘I’m not with Chloe.’
‘I believe you.’
‘I shouldn’t have kissed you at the creek. You didn’t want Astrid to find out. I should have seen that.’
I open my fingers on his thigh, close them again. I want to do the documentary. For Grandpa. For Summerfield. That’s what I want to say. Where are the words?
‘It’s just that …’ I write the letter ‘I’ on his thigh. Long vertical stroke. Short horizonal stroke across the top and another at the bottom. ‘I want …’ A lower case ‘w’. Down, up, down, up. An ‘a’ and an ‘n.’ I’m sitting down, but the tingling in my thighs is even worse than it was. I bite down on my lip, focus on the letters again. I write a ‘T’. But then, ‘Oh. That’s wrong.’
He leans a little closer. ‘Mackenzie.’ His voice is gruff, but I don’t dare look up to see his expression. It’s quiet in the room, the rumble of voices and laughter are distant.
I rub hard on his leg, to erase the capital ‘T’. I try again, a long vertical stroke and a horizontal—
‘Mackenzie!’ He clamps his hand over mine. ‘What the fuck?’
‘What?’
‘You won’t look at me, but you touch my—’
I slam my hand across his mouth. Heat runs up my neck. ‘I did not!’
He takes my wrist and pulls my hand away. ‘Close enough!’
‘I didn’t mean …’ I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry.’
With something between a grumble and a groan, he takes my hands and puts them on his chest. He presses against my fingers to flatten them. And then, as I feel his heartbeat through my bones, he strokes my neck. His hand slides to the top of my arm. He presses his cheek against mine.
‘You think we’re too different. We’re not.’
‘I’m not so sure about that.’
‘I won’t hurt you.’ ‘I’m very tough.’ My voice wavers.
His hand slides lower, to my hip and then my thigh. He doesn’t trace letters. His grip is firm. Possessive.
‘Kit?’
‘Kiss me.’
I turn on the sofa, my leg on his lap, then press my mouth against his. Is it a kiss? It must be a kiss because our lips are together but they’re barely moving and …
It’s like we breathe through each other. Muted moans. Soft and shaky sighs. Gentle groans. One of his hands cups my cheek as if to keep me where I am. His touch, his taste. The texture of his mouth is intoxicating and addictive. I pull back a little, touch his face, his high cheekbones, his firm chin and jaw. He turns his head to the side and kisses my wrist. Then, gaze firmly fixed on my face, his hand travels slowly but inexorably from my waist—lingering over the skin exposed by the cut-outs in the fabric—to my hip and then to my thigh. He kisses me long and hard. He searches my mouth, my tongue. I press my breasts against his chest to ease the ache. I wrap my arms around his neck and stroke the hair at his nape. My breaths increasingly ragged, I mumble complaints. Why doesn’t he touch my breasts? Why doesn’t he—
‘Kit …’ I grasp his middle button again. ‘I think …’
‘Tell me what you want.’ He leans his forehead against mine. ‘Anything.’
‘I …’
‘You can’t tell me, can you?’ A deep breath. ‘What experience do you have?’
‘In front of the camera?’
‘Sex.’
My heart rate increases. ‘Why would you want to know that?’
His gaze travels down my body and up again. His eyes are bright, intent. ‘I need to know.’
‘None.’
A groan. ‘Fuck …’
Is he disappointed? Frustrated? I’m too aroused to care as I fiddle with the front of his shirt. I push my hand through a gap between his buttons, look up when I find his skin. ‘Kit?’ My voice is high and shaky. ‘Can I touch here?’
He opens a top button, a second one. ‘Anywhere.’ For a moment, we stare at each other. Then his mouth is on mine again, hard and hungry, demanding, desperate. His breathing is harsh, my whimpers are soft. When he cups my breasts over the dress and kisses a trail down my cleavage, I press my body close, talk against his cheek.
‘I’m more experienced than I was.’
He stills. He draws back and puts an unsteady hand on my face. There’s something in his expression that’s …
‘Kit? What’s the matter?’
With a glance towards the door, he pulls me onto his lap. I’m sitting sideways, my arms around his neck. His hand is splayed wide on the inside of my thigh.
‘Can I touch here?’
I swallow. Nod. ‘If you like.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes.’
His lips trail from my mouth to my neck. His bristles are rough and his teeth raze my skin. He strokes my body like he has to find all of it, fingers light and then firm as he teases and taunts. His erection is long and hard against my bottom. When I adjust my position, rest the inside of my thigh against him, he groans.
‘Is it okay to do that?’
‘Yes.’
As he traces the lace of my underwear, I adjust my position to accommodate him. He strokes and plays, the pressure builds, the wanting and needing and craving. I tug at his buttons, press my mouth against his skin, push down against his hand.
‘Kit! I’m going to …’
He matches the rhythm of his tongue to the rhythm of his fingers. Another stroke, another, until, quivering and panting, I climax. He continues to kiss me, sweet and tender, until the tremors stop. He straightens my clothes, cradles me in his arms and strokes my hair.
***
‘Mackenzie? Kj?reste?’ Kit’s heart thumps against my cheek. He rubs my back in slow circular sweeps. ‘It’s time to go.’
I breathe in the crisp clean smell of him. I yawn. ‘Where?’
He takes my hand, threads our fingers. ‘I’ll take you to Laura.’
Laura and Nell and Noah … I sit bolt upright. ‘How long have I been asleep?’
His eyes are gentle, amused. ‘Thirty minutes.’ He looks like he always does. Fully dressed, in control. My dress is twisted and creased, my shoes are off. My hair is smooth but that’s only because …
‘Has anyone seen us? Has my mother—’
‘No.’
He frowns as I shuffle off his lap, scrabble to find my shoes and put them on. I swipe at my dress, turn my back and—
‘Mackenzie. Don’t you dare.’
‘What?’ My voice is much too high.
He cuts in front so he’s between me and the door. He holds out a hand but I pretend not to see it.
‘Don’t run away.’
‘I …’ My bra strap has slipped off my shoulder and I pull it up. ‘I have to go.’
His eyes narrow. ‘I’ll go with you.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m sleeping in a bunk and—’
‘I’ll walk you there. Tomorrow we can—’
‘James is taking me to brunch.’ I nod like I can’t wait. ‘Then I’m going home.’
He indicates the sofa. ‘You can’t pretend that didn’t happen.’
‘I didn’t … I don’t …’ I nod jerkily. ‘I won’t.’
The voices outside the door increase in volume. Jocular. Ugly. The sounds I hated as a child. ‘Come and meet my friends, Mackenzie.’ ‘You can’t give her that, darling, she’s only fifteen.’ A trill of laughter. ‘She’s pretty, isn’t she? So young, so fresh.’
‘Mackenzie …’ There’s a warning in his voice. He holds out his hand. ‘Take it.’
I take a step back. A second step. A third. ‘I can’t.’
The laughter is more strident than it was. People have moved inside. Is that why he woke me? To warn me? My neck is warm. Is there something else to warn me about? Something I should know before I say goodbye to my mother? I clamp a hand against my neck. My eyes fly to his.
‘You haven’t left a mark, have you?’
Taking my chin between two fingers, he lifts. ‘Nothing.’
‘Thank you.’ His touch, even when I’m jittery and teary, makes my knees wobble. ‘Sorry.’
‘I don’t want thank you or sorry.’ Dropping my chin, he pulls aside the neck of his shirt, exposing a reddish mark on his collarbone. ‘I want this. I want you.’
‘Oh.’
‘Tell me what you want.’
‘I don’t want anybody else.’ I straighten his collar. ‘But I don’t think I should want you. I shouldn’t.’
He takes my hand. ‘I’ll wait.’
The door bursts open. ‘Sorry!’ A champagne cork pops.