‘It’s one of those perfect places, you know. The kind where everything is just right. A little bit of bustle, great vibe, delicious, fresh food.’
‘It’s been a long time since anyone cooked for me,’ I confess.
‘Oh yeah?’
I nod. Brendan did go through a phase once when he developed a sort of love–hate relationship with Gordon Ramsay and vowed to start making a special meal for us on a Saturday night. My main recollection of the experience was the phenomenal number of pots and pans left for me to wash up afterwards, which he seemed to think was a reasonable price to pay given that he’d been toiling over a couple of lamb chops and half a bottle of red for most of the afternoon.
I offer to wash up now, but Zach won’t countenance it. He’d done most of it before I arrived and leaves the rest in the sink, telling me he’ll deal with it later and that I am not to lift a finger, under any circumstances.
‘That might just be the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Russo,’ I say.
We eat and talk and laugh, all to a playlist he tells me he compiled earlier this afternoon. There’s a little bit of Lana del Rey, a touch of The Head and The Heart, a soupçon of the Plain White T’s and Tom Odell. I make him promise to send it to me, just so that when he’s gone and I’m wondering if I hallucinated these last few months, I can press play and take myself back.
When he finally brings out a lemon tart made with buttermilk, bilberries and thyme, I’m convinced I’m too stuffed, but somehow manage it.
‘And now . . . I can’t move.’
‘My portions are probably bigger than you’re used to.’
‘Still managed to clean my plate though,’ I say, sighing contentedly. ‘Zach, this was incredible. You never even mentioned you liked cooking. I’d have been over every other night with a bottle of white if I’d known. . .’
‘I’ve hardly done any since I’ve been in the UK. When Mila’s here, she only wants exactly the same thing – pasta with cheese and veggies – despite my attempts to tempt her with something else. And when there’s just me, I tend to just batch-cook and keep things in the refrigerator. It was nice to actually crack open the cookbooks again.’
‘Well, I’m honoured. You should keep at it when you go back to the US.’
The reminder that he’ll be gone brings a lump to my throat.
He forces a smile. ‘Yeah. I should.’
I place my napkin down. ‘Well, I’m sure I could just do a couple of dishes . . .’ I say, standing up.
‘Oh, stop it and sit down. If I’ve only got a limited time left with you I’mnotgoing to waste it by doing that.’
‘Fine.’ I do as instructed. ‘What now then?’
He draws his eyes across my face with a slow, sexy smile. ‘Scrabble?’
I start to laugh. But then he stands up, walks around the table and offers me his hand. I already know where we’re going next.
Chapter 49
There’s a soft, thick carpet in Zach’s bedroom, the kind your toes sink into, and by now the only thing illuminating the room is a fat summer moon. We fall onto the gentle folds of his duvet, as he massages the hairline at the back of my neck. Everything feels opulent, luxurious and dreamy. When he kisses me, sensitive, hidden parts of me shimmer like the moon. I feel tipsy but not from the wine. It’s from his slightest touch, the dry heat of his skin, the hush of the room and the bittersweet melody of some new song drifting in from the door.
I lie on my back as he props himself up next to me and his fingers slide to the sides of my breasts. I watch the shadows of his softly lit face, every perfect dip and curve of his features. In my whole life, I don’t think I’ve ever kissed anyone so beautiful. I feel something hard against my hip as he reaches up to the top button of my blouse. As he pries it open, I become hyper conscious of my breath, the exaggerated rise and fall of my breasts. He draws his eyes over my face and smiles. Then he opens the next button.
I crane my neck to kiss him, to taste those sumptuous lips. He smells of that same delicious scent I caught on the first day I ever met him. Only now, when his skin is close to mine, I can close my eyes and inhale, for no other reason than to breathe him in.
He opens another button.
Now he holds my hand and gently pulls me up so we’re both sitting. With a slow, singular movement, he draws my blouse over my head. I’m wearing a new bra, semi-sheer, with just atouch of lace, the kind that made me feel sexy the moment I tried it on. I breathe in automatically, then get a sense that I needn’t have bothered. He seems to like the parts of me that squidge. And the look in his eyes suggests that, even if he didn’t, he’s too far gone to care.
He runs his fingertips slowly downwards from the top of one strap, until they trace the line where lace meets skin and skim the pink outline of my areola. He bends down and places his lips on my neck, before planting a trail of kisses across my décolletage, one after the other, until I’m tingling from his touch.
Our mouths meet and go on another exploration. I cannot get enough of the tender warmth of those lips. The gentle, teasing bite of his teeth. The hot slide of his tongue. I want to taste every inch of him, starting here and ending . . . nowhere. I don’t want this to end.
He reaches around and unclasps my bra. The straps fall down first, followed by the rest. My breasts spill out, full and heavy. He looks as if it might just be the most decadent sight he’s ever laid eyes on. I reach up to his buttons now, with none of his reserve and patience.
Before we know it, we are both working on them, fumbling and giggling when they don’t undo fast enough. Eventually, he tears off his shirt and throws it on the floor. Moonlight reflects on the magnificent contours of his chest. We sink back together, hard muscle on soft breasts, and then—
