When he’s done, I manoeuvre myself further up his thighs, wrap my arms around him, take his heavy head into the crook of my neck, as he did with me, and hold onto him for dear life.
CHAPTER 27
Saoirse: Thursday 23 December
Reporting for work this week has really been quite exciting. I dragged myself unwillingly home on Sunday afternoon, but not before Miles had stuffed me and Bea full of an excellent roast in a sweet little pub off High Street Kensington. London is incredible if you are rolling in cash. Or you have a handsome, generous man and his adorable, hilarious little daughter to hang out with.
On Sunday night, I confided in Keeley and Becky over a bowl of soup. It was all I could stomach after my enormous lunch.
‘Fuck me,’ Keeley said. ‘I can’t believe you’ve shagged Miles Montague. And I can’t believe you’re in theMail.’ TheDaily Mailpublished a zillion photos on Saturday of the Sorrel Farm party, and among the footage of celebrities and influencers were a couple of flattering shots of Miles and me.Mr Miles Montague and Miss Saoirse Dunleavy, the caption said. I almost looked like I belonged there. I sent it to Mam and Da. They’ll be dining out on that for a while.
‘Tell useverything.’ Becky clasped her hands together and shook them in front of my face. ‘You owe me, after my hairtutorial. Besides, I have no sex life and I need to live vicariously through someone who’s actually getting some action.’
I gave them a carefully edited version of events, with enough beats to keep them happy without compromising Miles’ privacy.
‘And you like him.’ This from Keeley. It wasn’t a question.
Likeseemed a ridiculous word to describe my feelings for Miles.
The sense that, after two nights together, it was as if we’d known each other all our lives.
The familiarity.
The incredible sexual connection.
The fact that he seemed to be able to read my mind in bed (and in the bath, come to think of it).
The complete trust I had in him.
And the hunch that this was not normal. That the way I felt about this gruff, controlled man letting me past his walls was just the entrance to a vortex.
I stayed over on Tuesday night, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome. Going to bed alone the rest of the week would have been miserable if it wasn’t for the steady stream of WhatsApps from Miles.
I miss you.
I’m bored.
You looked so beautiful today.
I should have sent you home with one of the flannels…
When I let myself in the door of the penthouse on Thursday morning, nothing and everything has changed. Bea and Miles are sitting at the large dining table. Miles has his top button open and his tie hangs around his neck (oh, sweet baby Jesus). There’s a pot of tea waiting just for me. Bea bum-shuffles her way off her chair as usual and runs into my arms for a cuddle.
But the way Miles looks at me as I shimmy out of my coat, with naked lust in his eyes and an open mouth, is a moment so glorious that I want to wrap it up and keep it forever. I’ve blow-dried my hair with a lot more care than usual all week (time-consuming but worth it), and today I’m wearing my little tartan mini-skirt with bottle-green tights. His eyes drop to my legs, and he swallows.
‘Good morning!’ My voice is a sing-song.
‘Morning, Saoirse.’ His voice is even but gritty, and it suggests anything but control. ‘Beadle, d’you want to go and brush your teeth?’ He doesn’t take his eyes off me.
‘Okay.’ Bea scampers off. Bless her.
He’s up from his chair in a shot, rounding the table to get to me, just as he’s done every morning this week.
‘Morning, baby.’ He says the words into my mouth as he crushes me to him, and I reciprocate greedily, my hands in his silky hair. ‘Are you planning on killing me with that skirt?’
‘I thought you’d like it.’ I lean my forehead to his and take hold of both ends of his tie. ‘Can I watch you tie your tie again?’
He snorts. ‘If it really floats your boat that much, be my guest.’
