8. Chapter 7
Peter
Once we get to the bedroom, I walk her backwards, slowly, my hands at her waist until the backs of her knees meet the bed and she drops onto the mattress.
For a moment, neither of us does anything.
Mandy looks up at me, hair slightly mussed from my fingers, one side tucked behind her ear. She pushes the shirt from my shoulders.
Her palm settles against my chest.
I look down at it.
Then at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Her fingers trail over my stomach.
The muscle jumps.
Her mouth curves.
“Ticklish?”
“Not the sensation I’d go with.”
She laughs.
That proper Mandy laugh, warm and unguarded.
I bend and kiss it from her mouth.
She shifts back onto the bed and I follow, bracing myself over her. My hand finds the button of her jeans and slips it free.
Mandy lifts her hips without being asked.
I pull the jeans down her legs and drop them beside the bed.
Simple black knickers underneath.
Of course.
Nothing designed for an audience. Nothing trying too hard.
Just Mandy.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m looking.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re doing it very slowly.”
I run my palms up her thighs.
“I’m in no hurry.”
Something changes in her expression.
Tiny.
Enough that I notice.
She reaches for the back of my neck and pulls me down.
I kiss her mouth, then her jaw, then the place beneath her ear that always seems to make her breathing change.
No rushing this time.
That is the point.
Earlier, against the wall downstairs, I wanted to lose myself in her.
Now I want to stay right here.
I pull her top over her head and she lifts her arms to help me. There is no bra underneath, and a second later she is lying beneath me in only her knickers, her skin warm in the lamplight.
She does not cover herself.
She never does.
Mandy simply looks back at me, chin slightly raised, completely at ease with her own body.
Fuck, that confidence is sexy.
“What?” she asks.
“You.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Her mouth twitches.
I lower my head and kiss her collarbone.
Then lower.
Her fingers slide into my hair as my mouth closes over one nipple.
She exhales.
I take my time with her, moving from one breast to the other until her fingers tighten and her hips shift beneath me.
I smile against her skin.
“Don’t.”
I look up. “Don’t what?”
“Look smug.”
“I can’t help my face.”
“You manage when you’re sulking.”
“That was one evening.”
“That was twenty minutes ago.”
Fair.
I kiss my way down her stomach instead of answering.
Her hand follows me, fingers still caught loosely in my hair.
When I reach the waistband of her knickers, I hook my fingers beneath it.
Mandy lifts her hips.
I slide them down and drop them beside her jeans.
Then I settle between her thighs.
She opens for me without hesitation.
That trust does something unexpectedly complicated to my chest, so I concentrate on something considerably less complicated.
Her.
I kiss the inside of her thigh.
Then the other.
“Peter.”
“Yes?”
“You know where everything is.”
“I’m enjoying the journey.”
She gives my hair a small tug.
I grin.
Then I put my mouth on her.
Her breath catches.
I keep it slow. Not teasing this time, exactly. Just refusing to rush because I know what happens when I do.
Mandy’s hand tightens in my hair as I find the pressure she likes.
“There.”
I do it again.
Her hips shift towards me.
“Peter.”
That version of my name is considerably better.
I keep going, listening to the changes in her breathing, feeling the tension building in her thighs.
She is getting close.
I know it.
So does she.
I lift my head.
Her eyes open immediately.
“What are you doing?”
“Stopping.”
“I noticed.”
She gives me a look that would frighten weaker men.
“I want you with me.”
Her expression changes.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Then she reaches for me.
“All right.”
I move back up her body.
Her hands find my belt while I kiss her.
She gets it open, then my jeans, and pushes them down far enough for me to finish the job.
Her fingers wrap around my cock.
I close my eyes.
“Careful.”
“Why?”
“Because I have plans.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
She strokes me once.
My plans become significantly less organised.
I catch her wrist gently.
“Stop. Please.”
The please makes her smile.
“Look at you, learning manners.”
“Temporary condition.”
She lets go, reaches into the bedside drawer and pulls out a condom.
“Prepared,” I say.
“Always.”
"Who is smug now?" I chuckle.
By the time I have it on, Mandy is watching me in that quiet way again.
No joke.
No challenge.
Just watching.
I settle between her legs.
She brings her hands to my hips.
I pause there, the head of my cock against her.
“All right?”
“Yes.”
I push into her slowly.
Her eyes close.
I keep going until I am fully inside, then stop.
Mandy exhales and opens her eyes again.
“Peter.”
“Yes?”
“You can move.”
“I know.”
“Then why aren’t you?”
“Enjoying the moment.”
She stares at me.
“You are dangerously close to becoming sentimental.”
“I’ve had an emotional evening.”
“Clearly.”
I smile.
Then I move.
Slowly.
One long stroke, then another.
Her legs wrap around my waist.
Her heels press against my back, pulling me closer, but I keep the same pace.
She feels incredible.
That is not new.
What is new is how much I want to watch her while I do this.
Her eyes.
Her mouth.
The way her fingers curl against my shoulders every time I push deep.
The way she stops pretending not to feel anything.
“You’re looking again,” she murmurs.
“Yes.”
“Very intensely.”
“I like looking at you.”
“That’s suspiciously sweet.”
“You can complain later.”
“I probably will.”
I kiss her.
Slowly.
Her mouth opens beneath mine and her hand comes up to my jaw.
The same gesture from downstairs.
For some reason, that gets me.
I turn my face and press my lips to the inside of her wrist.
Mandy stills.
I lift my head.
“All right?”
“Yes.”
She sounds surprised by it.
I kiss her wrist again.
Then her palm.
When I look back at her, something in her face is softer.
Neither of us mentions it.
I start moving again.
The rhythm stays unhurried, but there is more force behind it now. Mandy meets me, her hips rising against mine.
She wraps one arm around my shoulders.
Closer.
That is what she wants.
So I give it to her.
Her body presses fully against mine every time I thrust into her.
The room is quiet apart from our breathing and the soft creak of the bed.
“You feel…”
I stop.
Mandy’s eyes open.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was clearly something.”
I press my forehead to hers.
“You feel very fucking good.”
Her mouth curves.
“Better.”
“Was that sufficiently unsentimental?”
“Just about.”
I kiss her again.
This time when I move, she moves with me.
The careful rhythm starts to break down, not into the frenzy of the first night, but into something we are both controlling now.
Her breathing gets quicker.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders.
“Don’t stop.”
“I won’t.”
I slide one hand between us.
Mandy gasps when my fingers find her.
“There?”
“Yes.”
I keep the pressure steady while I move inside her.
Her legs tighten around me.
She is close now.
I can feel it in every part of her.
“Peter.”
“I know.”
“Do not get smug about that.”
I laugh against her mouth.
“I’m trying.”
“You’re failing.”
Probably.
Then she stops talking.
Her body tightens beneath mine and she comes, her face turned into my neck, my name breaking from her on a breath.
I keep moving through it, slower now, feeling her pulse around me.
That is enough.
More than enough.
I come a moment later, holding myself deep inside her as the pleasure moves through me.
For a while, neither of us moves.
Mandy’s legs stay around my waist.
Her fingers rest at the back of my neck.
I press my face into the curve of her shoulder and breathe.
Eventually, she strokes one hand through my hair.
“That was very slow.”
I lift my head. “Complaint?”
“I’m considering it.”
“You seemed supportive at the time.”
“I was distracted.”
“Understandable.”
Her mouth curves.
I kiss the corner of it.
Then her cheek.
Then the place beneath her ear.
When I pull back, she is watching me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s my line.”
“You’re doing the slow-looking thing again.”
“I’ve apparently developed a habit.”
“Concerning.”
“Very.”
I kiss her.
No urgency now.
Nothing left to prove.
Her hand comes up and cups my jaw.
I turn into it and kiss her wrist again.
This time she does not freeze.
She smiles.
And somehow that feels more intimate than anything else we have done tonight.
By Saturday, I have made one firm decision about the Morton Hall job.
I am not thinking about it.
This would be going better if Hunter had not spent the first half of the Ramblers walk asking carefully casual questions about Monday.
Not obvious questions. Hunter is far too smooth for that.
He asks whether he's told me that Morton Hall is getting a new accounts software, whether I still know someone at the printers in Lowdale, whether my cottage boiler is behaving itself.
All of it sounds innocent, right up until I remember he once convinced a teacher that the cricket ball had flown through a greenhouse window of its own free will.
The man is not to be trusted.
Mandy is not here today.
Neither is Alexandra, which is probably why the walk has made it all the way to the old quarry without anybody producing a flask, a contingency plan or an opinion about my vitamin intake.
Mandy had messaged this morning to say she was covering a colleague’s clinic. Sensible. Brief. No mention of our night together, her bedroom or how she let me kiss her wrist afterwards as if she had forgotten herself for one dangerous second.
I have only thought about it fourteen times.
Possibly fifteen.
“Are you going to eat that?” Hunter asks.
I look down at the flapjack in my hand. “I had planned to.”
“You have been holding it for five minutes.”
“I am savouring it.”
“You are ignoring it.”
“I did not realise you had become emotionally invested in my snack.”
“Someone should be.”