Her movements were slow and languid, her hands on my shoulders to give her balance as she rode me, her centre tightening around my cock, my hands playing with her breasts, her clit, encouraging her to that edge of pleasure which we’d found so many times before.
Only this time was different. This time we knew wasn’t the last, it was the start of many more.
She came with her head tipped back, but her eyes remained on me, her pussy spasming around my erection, taking me close to my ending. Then she let me have control, my hands going back to her hips, holding her while I thrust up into her, my pace quickening until I came hard, seeing stars and crying out her name.
She collapsed on top of me, her body warm and soft against mine, her heartbeat racing as we both came down from that high.
I wrapped my arms around her, exhaustion now overwhelming. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She laughed again, smiling at me. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else. Not even at the Oscars.”
I believed her, although I’d never let that happen.
“I didn’t get to see you in your BAFTAs dress.” Although I had caught sight of a picture. She’d looked amazing, but she looked more amazing now.
“There will be other times, won’t there?”
“Absolutely.”
That was how we fell asleep, wrapped in each other and for the first time, with absolute certainty that this was not the last.
CHAPTER24
Otter
I’d rearranged things.March, the dates between the BAFTAs and Oscars, wasn’t filled with things based in America. There had been a couple of parties and charity events where I was meant to go, but the BAFTA win had given me something I’d not had previously: the ability to be selective.
Which was my excuse to Jas. I didn’t need to raise my profile any more right now. The talk about me was positive. There was already a buzz about my upcoming projects, and the Regency romance series had premiered to near record-breaking audiences and reviews from critics that had been delicious, even when I tried to read between the lines and over-analyse them.
I could afford to stay in England until the Oscars, when I’d need to tear myself away from Ryan for a few days.
Tear was the operative word there.
We’d had a week of just being us, with him needing a few appointments to have his head checked, and to do some light training. There were no further concerns – he’d been lucky as the other guy had sustained a more severe concussion – but it had made him consider even further how long he was going to play the game for.
I’d met with Jas to work out a way forward, given that I’d decided I didn’t want to be based in either California or New York, regardless of what happened with Ryan. I liked being in England. I liked the countryside and London, I was discovering Manchester and the wilds of the North, with the Pennines and Cheshire Plains made me feel an acceptance about my life that I hadn’t found elsewhere.
This decision was a big one, especially for Jas, who’d had a conversation with me more than once about where I was going to be based. I’d of course have to spend months at a time if I was filming a movie that was based in America, but that was part of the job. I’d already said to her that I wasn’t interested in doing any more US-based series. The one had been enough.
Ryan had been training properly for the first time since the head injury, that was nearly two weeks ago. He was feeling good, keen to get back in the squad for the next match, and excited about almost reaching the finishing line on the farmhouse, which would be ready to move into in another four weeks. I’d spent some of the last few days looking through home décor websites that Ava Callaghan-Ward had sent Ryan to make some choices, which he was apparently incapable of, mainly because he didn’t particularly care unless he hated something.
And I’d listened to what Ryan had told me about Lotte. The details of how she’d asked him to father a child with her, and he’d said no, explaining the reasons why and reassuring me without me asking for that reassurance. I’d never felt like he’d cheated on me, although I had been paranoid about his friendship with Lotte, as it had been important to him, I trusted him to tell me the truth. He had integrity. He was a good person.
He was my person.
I was in a hotel in Manchester where we’d booked an early dinner. It was one of Manchester’s oldest hotels, filled with Victorian-era architecture and fixings, the service reminiscent of that time too.
We were meeting at the residents’ bar, a room booked for us to stay over, instigated by me, for a very specific reason.
Ryan had already told me he loved me. The first time was after his concussion, which I’d reminded him of, suggesting that it was because he’d been hit over the head.
He’d then said it twice more, once before leaving for training in the morning, when I’d been still half asleep, wrapped in the duvet that smelled of him; and another time when we’d been binge-watching a docu-drama on Netflix, although neither of us was that into it.
I hadn’t yet said it back.
Not because I didn’t. I’d known I had since before Christmas. If hadn’t, not seeing him wouldn’t have hurt so much and the contact between us would probably have fizzled out. This was just a big thing for me. I didn’t want to tell him just because he’d said those words to me. I wanted it to have meaning.
So I was in a hotel. At the bar. With a negroni. The room was booked under the name Pam, carrying on with our theme, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly nervous.
