Chapter 21 #2
She was barely taking in a word. It was a cute flat; it was bright, there was a view, there was stuff and it worked.
Cool. Now she just wanted him to kiss her, take her to bed; she wanted his mouth on hers, on her skin, on every bit of her; she wanted to unzip his sensible trousers, pull them down, take that hardness in her hands, and guide it inside her.
‘… be enough?’ he asked.
‘Sorry, I lost concentration. I’m sure everything’s fine,’ she said, squeezing his arm.
‘So … um, shall I demonstrate the kettle?’ He turned to look at her, and a blush rose up his cheeks. Clearly, he could read her mind.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’d like you to demonstrate the bed, please. And if you’d be so kind as to carry me there.’ She unzipped her pink puffer and threw it onto a chair.
He picked her up and took her through to a small bedroom in which sat a stack of boot boxes, a double bed, a chest of drawers and a print of a painting of Grasmere – one she’d seen in the window of the local art gallery.
‘No – sorry,’ he said to Wainwright, shutting the door on him.
He lay her down on the bed, unlaced her single boot and took it off, then her socks.
Then he removed his own boots and fleece, and when he went to fold it up she tugged it from his hand and threw it to the floor.
He grinned. ‘In a hurry?’ Then to her surprise he removed her top with lightning speed, and with incredible dexterity, whipped off her leggings while making sure not to hurt her ankle.
Then he removed his own shirt and trousers, revealing a breathtaking body, no doubt honed by all that climbing and walking and carrying heavy packs. As he did, she took off her underwear.
He sat down on the bed and gazed at her.
‘Rosie – it’s been a while. I’m out of practice.
’ He trailed a finger down from her neck, between her breasts, and on down her stomach, stopping at the top of her legs.
Her heart began to pound as her body flooded with heat, and she squirmed beneath his touch.
‘I’m here for your revision,’ she gasped. ‘Just here’s good.’ She took his hand and opened her legs.
He stayed sitting where he was, his eyes locked on hers, his pupils dilating, and slowly moved his fingers until he found her sweet spot, and she sucked in a breath, then moaned, whispering, ‘Yes, god yes.’ He carried on, and she lay, hardly moving, not wanting to break the exquisite tension – of his eyes locked on hers, of his fingers stroking, circling, entering her, sliding in and out, faster, deeper.
Already, she felt herself on the edge, and caught hold of his hand.
‘Let me …’ she said, sitting up, and she pulled off his boxers then took him in her hand. He closed his eyes and let out a soft groan.
It was too much. She couldn’t wait. She lifted her left leg across him, oblivious to any pain in her ankle, and sat in his lap, taking his face in her hands, kissing him deeply.
Their mouths opened and their tongues curled together; she pushed her breasts into him, her nipples hard against his warm, broad, firm torso.
‘Rosie, I don’t have … I mean, are you–’
‘On the pill, yes.’
His hands went to her waist and he lifted her against him, locked his mouth on her breast, sucking, licking, lingering for a while before lowering her gently, sliding easily into her, letting out another groan as he did.
She ground herself onto him, wanting him to fill every last little space inside her, arching her spine, throwing her head back, then began to move up and down, her moans growing louder.
His hands were on her waist, those strong arms helping her; his lips moved back to her breast and he nibbled, sucked, bit gently, sending her quickly to the brink and then she came in a fierce, hot rush, crying out, and the feeling was more powerful than anything she’d ever experienced.
Feeling her shudder, he let himself go with a visceral grunt, pushing himself as far inside her as he could, before the tension left his body and he fell back against the sheets, pulling her down with him.
They lay quietly in each other’s arms, and Rosie wondered what he was thinking. Was this his first time since Gemma had died? Perhaps not; maybe there had been the odd hook-up, a grateful rescuee or two, wanting to thank him properly.
‘Well, Mr Hill,’ she said quietly, ‘I’d never have known you were out of practice.’ When he didn’t reply, she looked up at him. He was fast asleep.
She dozed, and every time she came to, she couldn’t quite believe what had happened.
As she ran through the recent past, she imagined she detected a magical thread: the strange little pink-haired lady with her black cat, insisting the boots were ‘so you’, giving her that discount.
Her name’s Lucky. I expect yours to change.
Lysander and the padlock: BEN & ROSIE. The quaint old village with its gingerbread shop.
More boots, this time fitted by Ant – Ben – who’d demonstrated their magic on their rock.
The storm, the cave, the rescue. Madison, the most unlikely of fairy godmothers, opening a new door in Rosie’s career.
Ashley. In fact, maybe he was the fairy godmother.
Or maybe it was just like he said, that when you lived in a place like this, you cared about what happened to the people around you.
Ant stirred. ‘So, Rosie,’ he mumbled into her hair. ‘Do you think you might take the flat?’
She kissed his cheek. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, ‘but only if I get serviced every day.’
He laughed. ‘Rosie, you’re disgraceful, and yet I find myself smiling.’
She trailed a hand down his chest, his stomach …
‘Perhaps twice a day, on special occasions,’ she said.