Chapter 26 Tilda
TILDA
“I don’t want you thinking this is becoming a habit,” I murmur, but even as I say it, my hand is sliding down Finn’s chest, tracing the line of dark hair that trails below his navel.
“Wouldn’t dare,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep. But the faint curve at the corner of his mouth gives him away, and his hand comes up to catch mine, pressing my palm flat against his ribs where I can feel the steady beat of his heart.
The linen sheet is tangled around our hips and the first light shines through the not-quite-closed curtains.
I shift closer, brushing my nose against his shoulder, catching the faint, clean soap smell beneath the familiar oak-wood hint of his aftershave.
He turns, gathering me into his arms, our bodies fitting together as if we’ve been doing this for years, not days.
“Tilda,” he says, and there’s a question in the way he says my name. His hand slides down my spine, palm warm, and certain.
I kiss him before he can finish what he’s about to say, before the morning can bring reality crashing back in.
It starts slow – his body moving against mine, lazy and unhurried. His tongue traces my lower lip, and my mouth opens to him as the kiss deepens. His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back as he trails a line of kisses down my throat.
“We should get up,” I say, even as my leg hooks over his hip, drawing him closer.
“We should,” he agrees, as his teeth graze the sensitive spot below my ear and I gasp.
“Work. The distillery. Malcolm will—”
“Malcolm can wait” – his hand slides between my legs – “and you’re soaking wet, Chaos, so don’t tell me you don’t want this.”
I bite down on my lower lip as his fingers start to move, my hips pushing towards him as he pauses for a second, mouth curving in a teasing smirk.
“You want me to stop?”
I close my eyes. “Don’t stop.”
I grab the sheet in one fist as he pushes two fingers inside me, his thumb circling maddeningly slow as I press greedily up to meet him. The pleasure builds like a tide – overwhelming and inevitable.
“For someone who doesn’t want to make this a habit,” Finn says, his voice low and rough, “you seem to be enjoying it a little too much.”
“Shut up,” I manage, my hips rocking against his hand.
Finn laughs, a low, deep sound that does something to me. It makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the slow, relentless movement of his fingers.
He shifts his weight, rolling me beneath him and the sheet falls away completely as he settles between my thighs. He takes his hand and strokes once, twice, his dark eyes holding mine. I reach for him, and he catches my wrist, pinning it gently above my head.
“Not yet.”
“Finn—”
“I want to watch you come first, baby.”
Something inside me melts at the word and I close my eyes. I bite down on my lip and slowly shake my head, wriggling down towards him to take him into my mouth, closing my eyes at the salt taste and the silken feel of his skin on my tongue.
He pulls back with impressive restraint and raises a brow.
“Finn,” I whisper breathlessly.
“You first, Chaos,” he says, rolling on to his back, tugging me with him, and guiding me over his chest until I realise where he wants me. His hands tighten on my thighs as he draws me up over his chest, towards his waiting mouth.
“On my face,” he says, and it sounds like an order.
“I can’t,” I almost squeak.
His hands tighten on my thighs, and he settles my knees on either side of his head.
“I’ll squash you,” I gasp, but then I feel his tongue on me and grab the metal rail of the bed. His hands close on my hips, and he pulls me closer.
“Then I’ll die a happy man,” he says, his voice muffled, and then his mouth is on me and I’m lost. His tongue works in slow, devastating circles while his fingers crook inside me, finding the perfect spot.
The pressure builds impossibly fast and I cling onto the metal rail of the bed, needing something to anchor me.
“Oh god—” I can hardly focus, and I raise myself slightly, breathless.
“So sweet,” he murmurs against my skin.
He pulls me down again and I cry out, my orgasm crashing through me.
But he doesn’t stop, dragging it out until my legs are shaking and I’m almost laughing as I beg him to stop.
He flips me over somehow, kissing me so I can taste myself on his tongue.
He reaches over to the bedside table and a moment later he pushes against me.
“Okay?” he asks, holding still, and giving me time.
I nod.
He starts to move – slow, deep strokes that make my toes curl. His forehead rests against mine, his breathing ragged.
“Christ, Tilda,” he groans. “You feel—”
One of my hands fists in his hair as the other digs into the muscle of his back. He shifts his angle and suddenly he’s hitting the perfect spot with every thrust.
“Harder,” I beg, and he gives me what I want, his hips snapping forward, the bedframe creaking in protest.
The second orgasm builds fast, surprising me when I thought I was spent.
I feel heat coiling in my belly and his hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit and that’s all it takes.
I come apart again beneath him, his name on my lips and he follows a heartbeat later, burying himself deep inside me.
For a long moment we breathe, tangled up together in the grey morning light, his weight solid, and grounding me. I run my fingers through his sweat-damp hair, and he turns his head to press a kiss to my palm.
“I could get used to this,” he says quietly, almost to himself.
My heart stutters because so could I. And that’s the problem – this has an expiration date. The cottage is nearly ready to sell. Jennifer’s visit is in two weeks. After that…
I push the thought away and slip from the bed, legs shaking, and my chin beard-scraped and pink.
“Shower,” I say a little too brightly, not meeting his eyes.
When I glance back from the doorway, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
After my lone shower, I head downstairs to let the dogs out, putting the kettle on the Aga, while Flora and the spaniels rush to the door in a flurry of wagging tails and excitement.
Finn emerges a few minutes later, barefoot in jeans and pulling on a T-shirt.
“I have to go,” I say, picking up my phone. “Kenny texted to say he wants to double check the chimney before he does a job off island, so I need to get there now.”
I bend to pull on my socks, the tiles cool under my bare feet. When I look up, he’s watching me, expression blank as if he’s lost in thought and I happen to be in the way. I finish putting on my shoes and leave for the village.
Down by the harbour the air is bright and sharp, the sea choppy and dancing with white horses.
I’ve got two rooms painted now, the roof fixed, and the garden almost clear.
One by one the pieces are falling into place and as they do, my time on the island is running out.
I haven’t even thought about what comes next, but I realise with a stab of something that feels almost like homesickness that I’m going to miss this place more than I expected.
Kenny’s van is already parked outside as I pull up, a ladder balanced up against the wall.
“Morning,” he says brightly, straightening up from the base of the ladder and turning to give me a nod of greeting.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, although it’s barely eight.
Flora sits down at my side and looks up as he climbs as if she’s the site supervisor. I watch as he shimmies onto the top of the roof and peers at the chimney stack, nods to himself, and then makes his way back down.
“Just wanted to double check. Something caught my eye when I went past last night, and I thought it would be sod’s law I’d missed a tile when we took down the scaffolding.”
With every coat of paint and repair it feels less like an ending and more like something I’m not ready to walk away from. The cottage doesn’t feel like it’s empty any more, more like it’s waiting for someone.
Flora’s already standing by the door, impatient to get back to her spaniel gang.
I grab my bag and reach for the stack of battered hardbacks on the shelf in the hallway – the ones I’ve walked past countless times, meaning to sort out and drop off at the book recycling point outside the village shop.
My elbow catches the edge and the whole lot slide down in a dusty cascade, their spines thudding against the floor and pages flying out like ghost butterflies.
“Brilliant,” I mutter, crouching to gather them up.
Most of them are useless out of date guides – whisky tours, birds of Scotland, and an ancient road map with hotel suggestions which are two decades out of date. I head for the kitchen and grab a bin bag, ready to sweep them all into it.
Something red catches my eye among the mess – a lone book that’s flown across the hallway to land by the sitting room door. I pick it up and realise that it’s not a book – it’s a journal.
A red leather journal, scuffed at the corners with an elastic strap stretched around the middle.
I frown, turning it over in my hands. When I think of my dad, I remember scraps of paper tucked in his pockets, envelopes covered in half-legible notes and as I’ve cleared up the house, I’ve realised that my chaos echoes his.
But this is different – deliberate, almost.
I hook off the elastic band, and the front cover opens with a slight crack, the pages stiff from long neglect.
Inside is my dad’s handwriting, the familiar scrawl I remember from birthday cards and notes, silly drawings he used to make for me when I was little and plans he had pinned to the side of the fridge.
It’s bold and slanted in a deep blue ink that hasn’t faded in the slightest, as though he never thought his words would be left unread.
I flick the pages, turning them and flattening the book on the shelf, time forgotten as I look at his illustrations and annotations. Arrows fly across the page as he makes connections in a way that makes sense to me.