Page 104 of Pride and Privilege

He brushed his thumbs over her nipples again, watching the way her eyes slitted closed as she fought to hide her response. “It’s a good job…” she began breathlessly, breaking off as he caressed her again.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“That you’ve rented this paparazzi-proof, celebrity-ready villa in the middle of nowhere.”

“And why’s that, Poppy?” He undid the knot at the back of the bikini top and drew the garment off completely.

“Because you keep undressing me by the pool.”

“I regret none of these decisions.”

He ran his hand up her spine and pulled her to his mouth, their kiss slow, almost lazy, painted in gold by the sun shining through his closed lids.

It was true. He regretted none of it. It was over a month since he had given his father that letter of resignation. They had stayed in London until Poppy had finished the last of her three interviews at LibertyBrooks—even now they were waiting to hear the final result. Over a month and not a single moment in which he doubted his decision.

There had been a few days of feeling strange. Guilty and on edge, dreading every phone call, in case it was one about hisfather. But he had called his mother, even called Liz, and they had nothing to report—other than his father’s fury. But he could live with that.

Mostly, his phone had rung with headhunters, recruiters, contacts at BlacktonGold’s competitors. He could have chosen from a dozen roles. And while that helped cure his lingering doubt over whether his role at BG had been due to nepotism or merit, he wasn’t tempted by any of the jobs on offer.

He was starting his own company, just as he had told Poppy he would. And obviously that brought with it its own slew of worries—his anxiety was in respite, not cured—because starting a company from scratch single-handedly wasn’t any less stressful than his role at BlacktonGold. It was probably more so, given it was all down to him. So he had decided, after discussion with his doctor, on a type of talking therapy to help him manage his anxiety, give him some strategies and coping mechanisms.

Exercise helped. He went to the gym daily. And sleep—Poppy was insistent about that. Sleeping properly definitely helped a lot. Not that it took Poppy much persuading to get him into bed.

He hadn’t seen or heard from his father since quitting. But he’d visited his mother for lunch. She hadn’t seemed much surprised by his defection from BlacktonGold, but she hadn’t much cared either. She had no interest in the company, and little interest in Roscoe himself other than to check he looked well, and dressed well, and to ask if it was true, did he have a girlfriend? When could she meet her?

“Soon,” Roscoe had promised, unsure if he was lying or not. Poppy and his mother? He had no doubts that his mother would like Poppy: she was beautiful, and that was about all that mattered.

As if that’s all she was. This woman who held his heart, who was the other half of his soul. He kissed her slowly, luxuriously,savouring every press and slide of their mouths, his hands running down her sides.

Other kisses flickered through his mind. Drunk and reckless and helpless to resist in a greasy fried chicken shop. Filthy and desperate and stupid on his sofa. Comfort and sweetness and thanks by the riverside on that hot London day, BlacktonGold at his back, when he’d felt half like he was falling and half like flying.

He’d dragged her home—to the mews house, now truly their home—joking about interviews and Italian, delirious and happy even while shaken to the core. He had pressed her up against the door as soon as they were through it, kissing her madly, undressing her, himself, needing oblivion. Stumbling together to the living room, not even making it to his bedroom, but having her there, up against the back of the sofa, her legs around his waist, fucking her as though they might die if they didn’t come then, now, now. Gasping… Meeting her eyes. Finding himself there. His other half.

The Poppy on his lap drew back, smiling slightly, and asked, “Where have you gone?”

The sky was fantastically blue behind her, the light blinding, but her face blocked it a little, made its own soft shadows, every eyelash and freckle and curve of feature. He traced the line of her cheek, those sweeping angel wing cheekbones, and shook himself back to the present. “A happy place. You were there.”

She smiled crookedly, pleased, self-conscious. He stroked the smile with the pad of his thumb, and she nipped at it, drew it into her mouth, the tip of her tongue licking the tip of his thumb. He grunted, and her smile deepened.

Keeping her eyes on his, she lifted herself from his lap enough to free him from his trunks. He sucked in a breath as she closed her hand around him. She squeezed and his hand moved fromher mouth, knotted into her hair, delicious tension stealing over him, replacing all his drowsy languor with need.

He fumbled with the ties at the sides of her bikini bottoms. The wet fabric hit the hot stone with a sinful smack that made him smile an unholy sort of smile. Poppy bit her lip at the sight of it, stroked his length as though she still had any hope of being the one in charge here, as though he wasn’t already planning exactly what he was going to do to her—

Her phone rang.

She froze, wide-eyed. “It might be them!”

“It might be them,” he agreed, the skip of his heart mirroring the nervous excitement clear in her eyes.

She reached over for her phone, which was on the table by his abandoned laptop. Her eyes widened at the number, and she met his eyes with a grimace, half-excitement, half-terror, as she put her phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

He heard a faint voice.

“Yes. This is Poppy Fields.”

The one and only. He rested his hand on her hip, thumb rubbing reassuring circles as she spoke. It was the call. Had to be. He couldn’t hear what the other person was saying, but he could tell from Poppy’s expression, her voice. She was looking past his shoulder now, eyes focused on nothing as she concentrated on the call.

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