My composure has been reduced to rubble. I march into my bedroom, shutting the door. When I emerge a few minutes later in my clean and wholesome strawberry-print jammies, he’s in the bathroom, shirtless, brushing his teeth. The air carries the scent of mint and him. He’s already made the space his. I grab my own toothbrush, determined to reclaim my territory. We stand side-by-side in all our domestic glory. I spit into the sink, the sound loud in the small room. I risk another glance at him in the mirror. My brain supplies a vivid, unwelcome fantasy. It’s a detailed, high-definition daydream of his mouth replacing my vibrator.
The thought hijacks my brain and makes my knees weak.
I need to get a grip. This is the man whose dick was a national news item and who’s now sleeping on my sofa bed as a PR stunt. The probability of my fantasy coming true is lower than the chance of the real messiah descending upon humankind.
Finn rinses and spits, catching my eye in the mirror. He’s not smiling. He saw something on my face, the flicker of the daydream.
Then he leans closer, his voice a low murmur. ‘For future reference: I’ve got a lot more settings than him – and much better angles.’
Chapter 12
Finn
I wake throbbing with it. The dream still clings to me. Theo’s lips, bare of their usual red. She’d opened for me, blue eyes locked on mine as I pushed against the plush resistance until she took all of me. The memory makes my cock twitch against the thin cotton of my boxers.
Jesus fuck.
The flat is a furnace, Theo must run her heating at tropical levels. I kicked the covers down sometime in the night, leaving me sprawled across her sofa bed in nothing but black boxers that are doing a piss-poor job of concealing my current situation.
I don’t even have jammies. But at least I’m not naked.
Elvis is curled by my feet.
I hear a soft gasp. It’s not the cat.
I open another eye, squinting against the morning light flooding through the curtains. Theo stands stock-still in the doorway between the hall and the living room, dark hair loose around her shoulders. Her gaze is riveted to my boxers, lips parted in surprise. Her pupils flare.
She likes what she sees.
The thought sends a fresh pulse of heat straight to my groin. I reposition slightly, not hiding my reaction but not flaunting it either. It’s enough to let her know I’m aware of her presence. Nothing to be ashamed of.
‘Mornin’,’ I rasp.
She startles as if I’ve fired a gun. ‘I was—’ She tips her chin toward the kitchenette. ‘Matcha…erm…or coffee?’
‘Caffeine in any form sounds brilliant.’ I stretch, arms above my head, and notice how her eyes follow the flex of muscle.
‘One sex…erm, sec. Oh god.’ Even her ears flame. She puts space between us fast and ducks behind the counter.
I grin at the ceiling. The woman who plays pool like a pro and handed me a laminated list of rules, is undone by my morning glory. It’s hilarious, fucking sweet, and deeply, viscerally satisfying.
She’s banging around in the kitchen area, clattering with mugs and spoons. Aye, she’s flustered. Theo MacMickin, professional problem-solver, is rattled by my cock – which, to be fair, is standing prouder for her than a piper on parade.
Perhaps I should feel bad. I don’t.
Perhaps I should get up, throw on a shirt, play the gentleman. I don’t do that either.
Instead, I lie here, listening to her moving around, imagining her hands shaking slightly as she measures coffee. Imagining those same hands on my skin. Between us. On me. The dream wasn’t enough. The sleep-mussed reality of her makes the throb so brutal that it might split me in two.
Elvis yawns, stretches, and pads over, head-butting my chin with a loud purr. The kettle clicks off. She’s still loitering by the sink. I have exactly two options: get up now and risk derailing her further, or stay put and torment us both.
I’m a rugby player. Careful, sensible choices? Not our thing.
* * *
Shortly before the interview, I’m in the exact same spot again. This time, fully dressed and no longer showing off a tent. Miracles happen. But my chest’s gone tight again. My mind’s revving like we’re in a final scrum. Ten minutes until the magazine crew arrives. Ten minutes to go from ‘has been escorted out of three nightclubs’ to ‘devoted domestic boyfriend with media training’.
I need to splash water in my face. I need to…
