Chapter 20 Theo
Theo
There’s something teasing me awake, and as I roll onto my back, I register what it is.
The smell of bacon.
Jesus. It’s like someone hit me over the head and I properly passed out. I feel like I’ve been unconscious for hours and hours.
Wait. Did someone hit me over the head?
I wipe a hand down my face. The blurry grey nothingness filling my brain right now starts to clear. Slivers of memories float to the surface.
Nora.
I was already annihilated when she showed up, thanks to sharing a bottle of tequila with the guys at Sexy Fish, an overpriced Asian restaurant on Berkeley Square, before we made it to the club.
But she was a fucking vision. That purple dress, clinging to her tits and flaunting her beautiful skin.
Her eyes, massive. Her hair, all flicked out and sexy and come-to-bed.
And when I got a feel of the flawless skin of her bare back, I was a goner.
Holy shit, we—
We really went for it in that club. Our kiss plays like split-second clips from a movie.
My fingers digging into her arse, tugging her as tightly against me as I could.
Her riding my leg as I devoured her mouth.
The delicious taste of her.
The heat of her against my thigh.
And best of all, her hunger. She was as into it as I was. I swear to God she was.
And I fucking blew it. I pinch the bridge of my nose and groan as it hits me just how much I blew it. Making it to the gents’ just in time to empty that bottle of very expensive tequila down the loo. What the fuck was I thinking, eating sashimi for supper? Alcohol management one-oh-one, man.
Jesus.
The rest of the night is coming back to me now, in excruciating flashes.
Nora standing worriedly outside the gents’ when I finally stumbled back out into the club.
Taking me home in a cab, my head hanging out of the open window like a bloody dog to keep me from hurling again.
Putting me to bed, for Chrissakes, and not in the way I wanted. I think I begged her to stay. Told her I wanted to fuck her into next week.
Yep, I did. She laughed at me. Not unkindly, more like I was a delusional toddler who hadn’t got the bedtime memo.
Fucking hell. She was so up for it—we were both so turned on, and I sabotaged myself. I had a beautiful woman in my arms, who seemed to want me as much as I wanted her, and I flushed my chance to get her into my bed down that fucking toilet. My morning wood twitches indignantly.
Yeah, mate.
I know.
Ugh. I roll over and bury my face in my pillow, but it’s too warm. I’m overheating. I need some fresh air. And to get some food down me. I throw off my duvet and pad into the bathroom. And stand like a zombie under a cold shower with my toothbrush hanging from my mouth.
When I emerge from my room in a pair of running shorts, Nora’s sitting at the island, digging into what must be a bacon sandwich, judging from the smell.
She’s a sight for sore eyes in a white vest and what look from here like denim cutoffs, her long, gorgeous hair still all flicked out and bouncy around her shoulders. She eyes me nervously.
‘Hey.’ I hold my hand up sheepishly.
‘Hi.’ She points. ‘There’s a bacon sarnie for you, if you can handle it.’
‘Hell, yes.’ I start towards the island.
She eyes my naked chest. ‘Like they say in McDonald’s: no shirt, no service.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ I mutter. ‘Whose flat is this, anyway?’ But I turn on my heel and go fetch a t-shirt like a good boy. I’m not really in a position to give her a hard time. I’ve given her enough grief already.
NORA
Because Theo’s complied with my request that he cover up that insane body of his with a t-shirt, I comply with his request to get some air and follow him out onto the terrace with my plate in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.
There’s a comfy sectional sofa that takes up three sides of a square.
He settles in one corner and I sit myself down in the opposite corner and study him.
He looks like hell, but he’s still gorgeous.
He’s found a sky-blue t-shirt that makes his olive skin pop, and stuck a baseball cap over his damp hair.
There are violet shadows under his eyes, and his designer-stubble-slash-beard is a little unkempt.
It’s hot, and it’s even hotter because I know how it feels against my skin when he’s really, really kissing me.
When he’s grinding his face against mine.
It feels like sin.
He takes a sip from the double espresso he’s made himself, and his head lolls back against the cushions as he lets out a huge sigh.
His plate is balanced on his thighs, and I can’t help but check out his legs, laid out on the sofa in my direction.
They’re delicious: tanned and covered in dark hair, which I’m surprisingly into.
Jonathan’s body hair is as golden as the hair on his head, but Theo’s hairiness is kind of primal.
He has athlete’s legs: meaty, muscular quads and shapely calves.
The guy even has nice feet, for God’s sake.
‘Feeling rough?’ I ask. I’m not sure how I feel right now—sexually frustrated and mortified and relieved and lots of other things that have had me tossing and turning since too early this morning.
I can’t help but think Theo’s puking incident was the most well-timed chunder ever, because our evening was going in a very unwise direction before that.
And no matter how horrifyingly turned on I was, I’m delighted he inadvertently saved us from ourselves.
He groans and sets his espresso down on the table. ‘Yeah. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.’
I stiffen. ‘It’s fine, honestly.’
‘Come here.’ He takes a bite that’s almost half of one half of his sandwich and puts the plate down beside him, patting the space next to his legs.
‘Um… what?’
‘Here,’ he says with his mouth full. ‘Gimme your feet.’
At least, I think that’s what he says. I eye up the expanse of sofa next to his long, hairy legs. ‘No way.’
‘Feet, Belle. Put your legs up here.’
I glare at him and gingerly twist so I can prop my legs along the sofa. Next to his but not touching. Definitely not touching. The way I’m sitting, his feet are almost at my hips.
He rips another bite of sandwich off like a caveman and chomps before taking one of my feet and laying it across his thigh. I twitch and try to pull my foot away, but he has my ankle in a tight grip.
‘Fuck, this sandwich is good.’
‘Theo. What are you doing?’
‘Apology foot rub.’
‘Honestly. No way. Not necessary.’
‘Yes way. What did I tell you about physical contact, sweetheart? I love this shit. So unless you’re a foot-rub-hating freak, I suggest you let me get on with it.’
He accompanies this command with a strong sweep of my instep with his thumb, and I nearly jolt out of my seat. Jesus, that’s good. As is the contact my calf is making with his hard, hairy thigh.
‘Okay.’ My consent comes out as a sigh as I yield to his magic hands.
When my leg goes floppy, he lets go of my ankle and adds his other hand to the job, stopping every few seconds to pick up and devour the rest of his sandwich.
I rest my head back on the cushions and watch him through my eyelashes.
His head is dipped, the peak of his cap concealing his eyes and casting shadows over his cheekbones. So really, I just get mouth and beard.
Which is absolutely fine with me.
I’m not really into physical contact. Not like Olaf over there.
I’m not touchy-feely. Except with Elle, I suppose.
But something about Theo’s total ease with feeling people up makes me less self-conscious than I should be.
Case in point: this foot massage. Or on the sun lounger at Sorrel Farm. Or, ahem, last night.
His teeth tug on his bottom lip as he works, kneading my arch, squeezing my toes, getting his strong thumb right in there under the balls of my feet so I flinch and then moan, because it’s that good.
Warmth is flooding outwards from my foot as I lie here in the sun with him, nibbling on my sandwich.
At my moan, he lets out a little laugh, but it doesn’t sound amused.
‘The only way this is going to work, sweetheart, is if you don’t sound like you’re having an orgasm while I do it, because I’m on thin ice here.’
Oh my God. I jerk my foot backwards, but he grabs my ankle.
‘Not so fast, gorgeous.’
He rolls his knuckles around my instep and if I could moan, I really would.
‘You and I are going to have a little chat.’ He looks up from under his cap and his eyes connect with mine. In the shadow of the cap, they look darker than ever.
‘There’s nothing to talk about.’
‘There’s plenty to talk about. Starting with, I’m sorry for ruining your evening.’
‘We’ve all been there, Romeo. You didn’t ruin it.’ I mean, he absolutely made my evening, and then he saved me from myself. Not that I’m telling him that.
‘I made you leave your friend’s party after about half an hour, after you’d got all glammed up, because I was a dick and couldn’t handle my booze. You should have just sent me home in a cab.’
As if I would have done that. I doubt any cabbie would have taken him, anyway.
‘Honestly. It’s not a big deal, and it’s the least I can do, given I’ve turned into your squatter.’
‘And you didn’t get your happy ending.’
My head jerks up. He’s grinning at me.
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ I say stiffly. He kneads harder, and I arch my back and clench my fists in an attempt to take the pain.
‘Come off it. If I hadn’t cocked up, you and I would have come back here and fucked.
You know it as well as I do. And you also know it would have been fucking amazing.
’ He balances my heel in one hand and his thumb does leisurely laps of my instep.
It’s decadent. And sensual. I squirm on my cushion.