Chapter Thirty-One
Rory
It’sdark when I get back to the house, timing my arrival until I’m sure Fin will have left. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking this afternoon; hypothesising while driving around aimlessly. Thinking rationally, I suppose. The conclusion I’ve come to is that I have to stop thinking with my dick. It just keeps leading me into bad decisions; Beth, Anna, and now Fin. The first two were poor business decisions, but I think messing with Fin could be much more damaging. It’s not that I want to stop this thing between us, this whatever it is, but she’s not in the right headspace for casual, despite what she might think. And me? I have all sorts of thoughts and feelings concerning the woman—wants versus needs—desire versus what’s good for me.
It's bloody ironic, really. I love women; that’s no lie, but I’ve never been interested in the whole package deal, preferring my women in parts. Sounds slightly serial killer-ish, but isn’t at all. I love their eyes, their laugh. A pretty face and a nice smile, and I happen to like their intelligence almost as much as I like what’s between their legs. But the other parts? The truth is, I’m not interested. I don’t want to know of their dreams and ambitions, their pasts, their families or their beloved cat’s name. I really don’t give a toss about any of that stuff. But with Fin, I can see the day coming where a roll in her bed won’t be enough.Isn’t enough now.
I’ll want all of her and won’t be satisfied by parts. This isn’t only wrong but dangerous, because she’s unavailable, and I’m not sure she really knows.
Just my fucking luck that the first woman I’ve ever had strong feelings for would be only available in parts. I can have her body, sure.
But her head?
Her thoughts?
Her heart?
It’s clear I can’t afford to get involved.
As I drive around to the rear of the house, I’m relieved I’ll be leaving soon. Decision made: I’m going home. Fuck the gardens and grounds and fuck Kit. It’s for the best, but still means one more night in Fin’s bed.One more night surrounded by her scent.
The gravel crunches under my feet as I click the key fob, pointing it over my shoulder at the truck. I’m conscious of the lack of light indicating execution of both lock and alarm as I hesitate. It’s not likely to get stolen; not only is this place pretty remote, but it’s also a very conspicuous car. There aren’t many Ford F-150’s on the roads of Scotland. Run of the mill in the States they may be, but here they’re huge fuck off vehicles.Not to mention a nightmare to park.Serves Kit right if it does get nicked, I think, even as I turn to check the driver’s side door. It’s then I see there’s a light on. Not inside the car, but the house—the main house. Dragging a weary hand down my face, I make my way to the backdoor to investigate.
The door to the old scullery is open, the door beyond into the kitchen, too. I’m beginning to think Fin must’ve left in a hurry, not that I blame her the way I stormed out, when I hear the distant strains of music from somewhere deeper inside the house. I know it’s wrong but I can’t help that my pulse rate picks up at the thought of her still being in the building somewhere.
I follow the soft strains, a smile growing as I realise two things. Firstly, the music is coming from the direction of the gym, and second, it sounds a little like country music the closer I get.Maybe that gorgeous exterior hides a country girl’s heart?I actually huff out a laugh at the random though. Whatever, I’m kind of hoping she’s using the gym whatever she’s listening to, maybe in tiny shorts. I’m not planning on anything, but it’s a view my eyes will always appreciate.
And what do you know, my hopes are realised as I reach the partially frosted glass doors. Well, partly realised. Fin is on the treadmill. No shorts. Knee length leggings and wrestler back sports bra top. I might not be getting involved and I might’ve promised myself I’d back away, but how could you not look at that arse?
It’s like a fucking peach.
I can look.
And I certainly can watch.
That’s not harming anyone, least of all Fin.
I won’t make a noise, won’t even open the door. Apart from startling and possibly knocking her off her unforgiving stride—because, Jesus wept, the woman can run— I don’t want to give her any ideas, especially as it seems I can’t do normal around her. Apparently, I can only do antagonistic with a side of innuendo. Why is it that mad sexual tension is our baseline?
Her feet pound against the belt as I consider the music as a strange choice of song for a run. I run myself, usually along Canary Wharf, where our office is. I’m a road runner essentially and not a big fan of filling my head with anything while I do so. Running provides me with valuable thinking time and if I’d had my running gear with me today, I might well have taken off on foot rather than in the truck. The point is, I don’t run to music, but if I did, I wouldn’t have chosen this song. It’s an older one and, as it turns out, not country.Probably from the eighties. It plays from a music channel on one of several TVs mounted to the various walls.
Won’t open the door, my arse.
Ignoring the implications, I push it open with my foot and slip inside.
The lights illuminate only one side of the room, casting the entrance in shadow. This, and the angle of the room, means she likely won’t see me, though I can see her.
And I can watch.Like a fucking perve.
Sweat glistens against the skin of her lower back, shoulders and neck, the latter causing the hair at her nape to kink and curl. Through the mirror, my attention is pulled to her mouth—no surprise there—her lips open as she pants. It’s just fucking indecent where my mind wanders, but the sounds she makes don’t exactly help.Running. Think of running.She’s got good technique; good pace and stride. I try to concentrate on this rather than the fact her mouth is open and that, in the mirror, it’s reflected like some sort of deliciously obscene gasp.
Pounding. Glazed eyes. Open mouth.
Fuck.
Yep, this is definitely a song from the eighties, confirmed by a glance at the TV.
Keep watching. Don’t stare at her mouth or her arse.
