Page 77 of Pride and Privilege

“Woeful, inept fumbling?”

“Yes.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s a terrible pity.”

“Isn’t it just?”

He let go of her foot and reached for the other. She wriggled slightly, getting even comfier, and her heel brushed against the unmistakable beginnings of Roscoe’s stiffening cock.

“What were the things?” she found herself saying, pulse ratcheting up.

“Things?”

“You said you’d imagined doing filthy things to me in your office.”

Roscoe’s hands stilled. She wriggled her foot impatiently and he resumed his work with a faint laugh at her demand. “Use your imagination,” he said.

“I am.”

Deliberately, she let her foot nudge him again. He sucked in a breath, and she did it again, but he took firm hold of her foot and shifted it away.

“Spoilsport,” she muttered, as though she wasn’t cringing inside at his rejection. And he huffed a laugh. A tense, strained laugh. Why was he doing this to himself? She knew it wasn’t really a rejection—that if she allowed it, within moments he would kiss her, touch her, make her come with his fingers, his mouth. But it was starting to feel like rejection. It stung, that he wouldn’t ever give himself to her.

She drew her feet away and sat up, pretending to stifle a yawn that soon became real. “I think it must be bedtime. And you definitely need some sleep.”

He looked up at her, a glimpse of regret. Apology. He brushed it away, the way you hide things under a rug. Shove mess into cupboards. Pretend it isn’t there.

“I don’t think I could get to sleep right now. Maybe I should hit the gym.”

“At this time?”

“I…” He let out a breath, sat back again against the sofa, though his shoulders were rigid. “I’m just a bit on edge. Bit of an argument with my dad. Or not even an argument…”

“What happened?”

“Oh. Nothing really. He just wanted to tighten my leash.”

She gave him a questioning look, and he sighed, rubbing his face. “Setting up this tax service department… It’s not something I’m enjoying.”

“I know.”

He looked surprised at that.

“I can tell,” she explained. “You get all glowery and moody when you’re working on it. Your emails get clipped and blunt. You put off meetings about it in favour of client stuff, PM stuff…”

He grimaced. “It’s that obvious?”

“Maybe only to me.”

“Well. I’m stuck doing it for the next two years.”

“Does your father know how you feel?”

Roscoe just nodded, jaw tight. Then he pretended to be absorbed by what was on the TV—someone jumping out of a burning building—while Poppy deliberated whether to press the subject or not. His body language very clearly said,I do not want to talk about it.But maybe heneededto talk about it. Maybe—

He spoke just as she was about to.

“I went for a walk on the way back from the office. Needed to clear my head a bit. And I came up with an idea. I need a break. A change of scenery away from the office. So I thought I’d go visit Mabel in Dorset.”

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