“That my body,” I say carefully, “is very responsive to dairy-based confidence.”
Her smile slows. Turns curious.
“Oh,” she says.
“Yes,” I reply. “Very much oh.”
She doesn’t say anything else. Just watches me for a moment, eyes warm, amused, something else threading through it that makes my pulse kick harder.
And there it is again. Not dramatic. Not demanding. Just a little twitch.
My dick is definitely awake.
Very awake.
I let out a breath and laugh, half disbelieving, half wrecked. “This,” I say, “is becoming a problem.”
She leans back, utterly unapologetic. “Sounds like a successful celebration to me.”
And, bloody hell, she’s not wrong.
32
Pish Posh, Call Me Elizabeth
Christa
The tumble dryer clicksoff in the kitchen and the flat drops back into its usual quiet. That soft, held-breath silence it gets when Geoff isn’t here, like the place knows it’s missing a body.
I pull the laundry out while it’s still warm. His stuff, mostly. T-shirts, socks, one jumper I recognise because he always claims it’s too warm and then wears it indoors like a man bracing for winter. I fold automatically, my hands doing the work while my brain pretends this is a completely reasonable thing to be doing.
It’s just washing. Calm down.
I carry the pile into his bedroom and pause in the doorway.
His room smells like him. Not in an overpowering way. Just… present. Clean cotton, soap, coffee, something warmer underneath that I can’t name but feel immediately behind my ribs.
I swallow and step inside.
I hang his shirts in the wardrobe, lining the hangers up neatly because this is who I am now. Domestic. Helpful. Dangerously comfortable. My fingers brush the fabric, and I don’t pull away straight away.
The bed is made. Pillows straight, the duvet pulled tight. He could get a job in housekeeping in any hotel with those bed making skills.
I sit down. Tell myself it’s only for a second.
Then I lie back.
The mattress dips under my weight and I freeze, half-expecting the universe to shout at me. It doesn’t. The ceiling stares back, bland and unjudging. I turn my face slightly and breathe in.
Him.
It’s ridiculous how fast my body reacts. My shoulders loosen. My chest softens. Like my nervous system has decided this is safe without bothering to ask me.
And then my brain, traitor that it is, takes me straight there.
His joy that the overly dramatic dick decided to give up his sulk and return to the land of the living.
A fantasy did it for him.
