Chapter 46
James
"Margot shouldn’t have asked you that question. I’m sorry." I lead her down the stairs.
"At her age, she’s allowed."
"Don’t let her hear you." I snort.
"Nothing can stand between a grandparent and the grandchild they’re impatient to spoil."
I stop and look at her in surprise. "Margot has a full life. She’s a working chairperson of the Hamilton group. She goes into the office every day. She’s on the boards of various trusts and charities; she’s—"
“Lonely.” My wife smiles.
It's that secret smile women get when they've worked something out that seems perfectly obvious to them and leaves the rest of us men scrambling to catch up.
"I’ll take your word for it." I pause on the first-floor landing and turn to her. "Want to see my childhood room?"
Her face lights up. "You grew up in this house?"
"We spent a big portion of our lives here. Whenever our parents needed some time off, they’d drop us off here. Geoffrey, the butler, and the staff loved having us around. Each of us had a room here."
"I’d love to see it."
My heart lightens when I see her excitement.
Only when I push the door open and guide her into the room, do I realize I’ve never showed this space to a girl…
or a woman. Many of my brothers sneaked in girlfriends once they were older, but me?
I preferred to spend time reading. Or working out.
But showing my wife this part of my life feels right.
She heads inside and looks around. I see it through her eyes. The single bed with the desk and chair next to it.
One wall is dominated by an overflowing bookshelf.
The others are crowded with posters of Commando, Top Gun, NSYNC, a minimalist Union Jack, a handwritten workout schedule with pull-up counts and run counts, and a torn page from a food magazine with a recipe.
I look up and spot the pull-up bar over the doorway Tristan had installed for me.
Yeah. He was there for me, always. A guiding hand. Never coming on too strong. I love my parents. But whenever I needed a sounding board, it was Tristan I turned to.
She heads to the desk, touches the models of a Black Hawk helicopter, a fighter jet, and of various superheroes who crowd the surface of the desk.
"Spiderman?" She waves the figure at me.
"When I was four years old, I lived and slept in a Spiderman costume. It got so dirty and smelly, Tristan had to bribe me into taking it off."
"What was the bribe?"
"Eating sushi." I laugh at the recollection.
She turns to me. "He bribed you with sushi? When you were four?”
"I loved food, even then. Eating sushi seemed on par with Spiderman."
I head to the corner of the room and bump my fist against the boxing gloves hanging on a hook. Then toe the resistance bands on the floor next to it.
She runs her fingers over the posters, then turns to me. "Clearly, you were attracted to both the services and food."
"I got to reinvent myself and do both." I shrug a shoulder. "I’m thankful for that."
"Despite the PTSD?"
"Despite the PTSD." I’d do it all over again. And this time, find a way to save my team. Feeling the coldness in my chest, I slide my fingers into my pocket and brush against the hair tie I have there. Once. Twice. Thrice.
Some of the tension recedes. I breathe out in relief.
She heads over to the bookcase and pulls out a book. "The Art of War by Sun Tzu."
"Victory belongs to the side that prepares before the battle begins." I can’t help but speak the lines which are stuck in my mind.
She slides it back, pulls out another. "Meditations by Marcus Aurelius."
"Control your mind. Control the outcome." I prowl toward her.
"You took that one literally," she huffs.
"Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain." She shoots me a glance. "Interesting choice of a book."
"Tristan’s gift to me. I think he saw before I did that I was going to become a chef. He wasn’t happy when I joined the Royal Marines, but he respected my decision."
I reach her.
And when she turns, she tips up her head. There’s a defiant tilt to her chin. And a seductive light in her eyes.
I step forward, so she has to flatten herself against the bookshelf.
I kick her legs apart.
She gasps.
I push up against her, and she whimpers. "James.”
"Hmm."
Without hurry. Making sure she can feel the ridges of my chest, the power of my thighs against hers, and between us, the thick, long, very insistent arousal that digs into the softness of her belly.
I wrap my fingers gently around her throat. She shivers, then brings her hand up to circle her fingers around my wrist. They don’t meet.
Her pupils dilate. She licks her lips, and a groan escapes me. I can’t take my gaze off that luscious, shiny mouth of hers.
"What am I going to do with you, hmm?"
Without waiting for an answer, I lower my mouth to hers. I lick her lips, and when she parts them, I slide my tongue over hers, drawing her fragrance into my lungs. The blood drains to my groin.
I tilt my head and deepen the kiss. Her softness, her sweetness, all of it makes me want to throw her down on the floor and rut into her. I tighten my hold on her throat, and a moan wells up her chest.
The sound cuts through the sexual haze in my head. It reminds me of where we are. The fact that I could lose control so easily when I’m with her sobers me up further.
I soften the kiss and pull back from her. “We should head down to dinner.”