Rory’s good looks + a taste in Saville Row suiting + a sort of intensity that makes my reproductive system both hot and sort of fluttery.
It’s like God just decided I was having a really bad day, so he thought he’d send me something to raise a smile.
And then went looking on my Rumblr account for inspiration.
Apart from the fact he doesn’t have a lengthy dick, or even two, in his hand, he could have just stepped from the screen on my phone.
So, no, I can’t look at him. Because he’s making me want to do bad things.
Yes, I really am having a bad day because how else could I be projecting my fantasies onto a man who has no interest in what’s between my legs?
Usually, I’m more than happy to hear of Fin’s daily running of Savannah’s gauntlet, the catering disasters, and the parties where celebs get drunk like the ordinary people but cause much juicer scenes. But right now, I can’t concentrate. But again, it can’t be anything to do with the man sitting next to me, all manliness and intense gaze.
I press my fingers harder on my neck as blood whooshes through my ears.
God, I can’t afford to get ill. Not this week. Not this decade.
‘What kind of medicine do you practise?’ Kit’s voice is all authority and an absolute complement to how he looks.
It’s a waste. An absolute travesty. I bet he’d be a monster in bed.
And just like that, I imagine him looming over me, my legs wrapped around his thighs, my back arched in ecstasy as he pounds the life out of me. My insides begin to pulse in time to my fantasy and... then I realise, I’d be the monster inhisbed.
Or a vagina nightmare.
But I can adapt. I don’t have to be in this image. I can swap out an anonymous male in my place. Both tall, dark, and handsome, their bodies entwined, their skin glistening with sex-sweat as their hands wrap around the other’s hard—
Yes, I also like my second favourite Rumlr page.
‘Are we keeping you from something?’ My body jerks upright at the sound of his voice. ‘Or maybe you’re just ignoring me.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Any more ice in my tone and I’d be freezing my ass to this chair.
‘I asked you a question.’ He cocks an eyebrow, mildly amused.Mildly Scots, but all man.
‘Have I told you how disconcerting that is?’ Fin’s voice interrupts from across the table. ‘Just when I think you can’t possibly look more alike.’ Kit’s gaze morphs from amused to warm, sliding to hers for the briefest of moments as his brother begins to protest.
‘I asked what kind of medicine you practise.’ His response is a good deal warmer than I deserve, and just like that, I want to bait him. Make him hard on me again.
A girl can wish.
‘I’m into plastic surgery.’
His eyes stay focused on mine, which is odd because this is the point I usually find a man’s gaze falling to my chest. Most people consider plastic and cosmetic surgeries as one and the same. Not that I do it for the attention—when they’re out, the girls get plenty on their own.
It stands to reason he’s not interested. He’s not likely to have a thing for boobs.
‘But tell him why,’ Fin says, breaking away from the light-hearted bickering, her drink sloshing over the rim of her glass as she leans across the table to swat my arm.
‘Because plastic surgeons make a lot of money?’
‘Not in the NHS,’ she scoffs, shaking her head. ‘You’d like people to think that’s the reason, wouldn’t you? It’s not,’ she adds, pointing a finger at me. ‘This one has hidden depths. Altruistic hidden depths.’
‘Really?’ Kit’s voice rumbles through my bones, but why does that one word sound like a response to a challenge? I don’t retort—can’t—but manage to shrug as though unaffected. ‘How so?’
I shrug, uninterested in explaining the difference between cosmetic and plastic surgery.
‘And what does Bea stand for?’ His words are almost languid as he swirls the remaining bit of amber liquid in the bottom of his glass.
