Page 45 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
When I still my hand, she stills too, eyes half-lidded, waiting for the next cue—proof she’s allowing me to set the tempo without a word.
“Lie back for me.” The words come out rougher than I intend, reverence tangled with hunger to taste her. She obeys without question, spine curving into the pillows like an Egyptian queen reclining on her chaise.
I trail kisses down the valley of her ribs, over the soft give of her stomach, stopping where denim meets flesh. Instead of peeling the jeans away, I press my mouth to the taut fabric, letting heat and breath seep through. She shivers—surprised, intrigued.
“Tell me if you want more,” I murmur, fingers slipping beneath the waistband, not to strip but to part it, granting me a whisper of space. My knuckles brush lace; her pulse leaps under my palm.
God, she’s exquisite.I bury a kiss just inside that vee of denim and satin. Another, lower. Her thigh muscles tense, then melt.
“Teddy…” The plea is soft, half-caught between permission and disbelief.
“I’ve got you.” I hook her knee over my shoulder, kneeling at the foot of the bed like a man about to worship at an altar. I ease the zipper right down, exposing a flash of white satin and lace, delicate as frost and clearly the good stuff. With slow certainty, I shift thecrotch of her panties to one side—nothing more—and taste the very centre of her, slow and unhurried.
She arches, a soft cry breaking free, hands buried in my hair, tugging hard. I smile against her, savouring every tremor, every shaky breath, determined to prove there’s no rush, no finale looming. Only this—her pleasure, my devotion.
She props herself on her elbows, letting her thighs fall wider, watching me, eyes hazy, lips parted in a little ‘o’. I drink in the sight of her for a moment, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and then return to the task of undoing her.
My tongue settles back to her swollen clit, a gentle swirl, then a quicker flick, the scent of her arousal rising, her breaths more ragged, quickening. When she unravels, in a ragged, shuddering, half-caught moan, I smile against her pulsing centre, pressing delicate teasing kisses, until she pants, “Enough—please.”
I drag myself up the bed, lay myself over her sweat-slick body and kiss her.
“Taste yourself on me,” I murmur. “So sweet.”
“I want to taste you.” She slides a hand between us, palming my erection, stealing my breath. I’m so hard, the tiniest friction and I’ll come in my jeans like a sixth-former in the back seat of his mum’s Fiesta.
I catch her wrist, gentle but firm, and bring it to my lips. “Not tonight.”
“Why not?” she whispers, half challenge, half wonder.
“Because this wasn’t a contract,” I say, brushing a damp corkscrew back from her temple. “It’s a gift. I need you to know I’ll give you things without expectation of anything in return.”
Her eyes search mine, hazy in the gloom. “But I—”
I kiss her knuckles. “All I want is for you to let me hold you like this. Let me listen to your heartbeat slow.” I roll onto the bed alongside her, tucking her into my chest. My fingertips trace the rise and fall of her ribs.
“We have time, Rachel.”
Her breaths lengthen, settling into a slow pulse, and she drifts off. Reluctantly, I ease away, smooth the quilt, draw a blanket over her. One last look—her face smooth and peaceful—and I force myself to the door.
The house is silent. I pass Liv in the hallway, dressing gown pulled tight, glass of water in hand.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Night, Teddy.” She offers a half-smile that suggests approval.
“Night, Liv.” I give her a quiet grin, humming to myself all the way to my room.
Chapter 15
Thefogthatrolledin overnight matches the haze between Teddy and me as we saddle our horses in the pre-dawn quiet of the stables. I fumble with Solly’s girth—my hands apparently still remembering the weight of Teddy’s fingers laced through mine just hours ago—and pretend I don’t notice how he’s keeping a careful distance.
We’ve ridden out together almost every morning since arriving here, but today feels different. The familiar rhythm of hooves on the path can’t quite mask the new awareness crackling in the damp air between us. Neither of us mentions last night, but it’s there in the way he glances over when he thinks I’m not looking; it’s there in how I catch myself studying the hands that mapped every inch of my skin with such deliberate patience. I keep thinking about that moment when he’d stopped, just stopped, to watch my face as pleasure overwhelmed me—like my reaction mattered more than his own. When was the last time a man looked at me like that? Like I was something precious rather than convenient?
There’s this urge to thank Teddy for last night sitting on the tip of my tongue, a desperate gratitude for being touched with such reverence. But god, how pathetic is that? Two months since Pierre walked away, and I’m ready to fall at the feet of the first man who treats my body like it deserves care instead of just access. The realisation stings—that for so long I’ve been so starved of basic tenderness I want to express thanks for what should be the bare minimum.
But it’s not only my physical need sated by Teddy’s reverent attention. I always thought I needed a sparring partner, someone bold and feisty, but look where that got me: three years that should have been the happiest of my life, yet when I look back on them were often mediocre. Pierre’s sharp business mind that had initially dazzled me eventually revealed itself as coldly analytical in everything, even our relationship. Sure, the sex was good, but beyond the bedroom, Pierre and I were more like supportive work colleagues, our life a joint project. I think we both mistook admiration for love.
Teddy is the breath of fresh air I didn’t know I needed. Where Pierre calculated, Teddy simply understands. Where Pierre maintained rigid control, Teddy flows. Whenever I’m with him, his relaxed banter, sweet playfulness, and his surprising perceptiveness, do weird things to my insides. It’s like the difference between marching in formation and dancing with total abandon. I’m not sure what these fluttering sensations whenever I’m around him are, but I like them. I crave more of them, and more of him.
“This fog makes me feel right at home.” Teddy’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He’s barely visible through the drifting white that surrounds us.
