Page 81 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“They’ll see. Choose you,” he says, belief steady in his eyes.
In the quiet, the central heating clicks on; I realise I’ve been holding my breath.
“Want a drink?”
“No,” he says softly, stepping closer. “There’s only one thing I want, but it’s the thing I can’t have.”
“Maybe you can.” I tip my face up to him, running my fingers through his hair, copper catching sparks from the tree lights.
“Not yet,” he says. He captures my hands, lowering them to his shoulders, and his mouth ghosts against my temple. “Not until I’ve proved it to you. I mean what I say. This is not a temporary thing, Rachel. You and me. I’m not normally a patient guy. Live my life at a hundred miles an hour. But with you, I can wait forever.”
“And if I said I can’t?” I whisper. “If I need you—here?”
His voice is rough. “Then I’d do this.” He drags me flush against him, slots one denim-clad thigh between mine and presses up until the rough seam hits where I ache.
“I’m going to let that needy body of yours take what it wants.” His hands cup my bum, guiding me onto his leg. “Bring that sweet clit of yours right in close,” he murmurs, tilting his thigh higher. “Show me how you like it.”
I push against him, my body craving the pressure. Instinct takes over. My hips roll, slow and searching; the ridge of his zipper ripplesdeliciously under my clit. Heat skitters through me, and with every grind, I feel another stitch of my resolve snap. The hard line of his cock pressing against my belly only feeds the fire of need at my centre.
“Yeah, that’s good,” he whispers at my ear. “You do that, baby, while I’m remembering how you taste. Reminding myself what it’s going to feel like the day I’ve earned the right to put my mouth on every inch of you. But for tonight…”
His mouth claims mine, devouring me. All his hunger and wanting burned into desperate kisses. His insistent tongue plunges deeper, consuming the only part of me he’ll allow himself to have.
I break the kiss, desperate for air, panting, chasing the punishing friction. Each drag against him sends me soaring higher. Soft, wrecked sounds spill out.
“Yeah, let me hear those noises. God, I love them,” he murmurs. “I’m memorising every one of them.”
“That’s it. Take what you need, baby.” He breathes against my ear. “There, yeah, right there.” His voice is a coaxing rasp. He rocks me against his thigh while I writhe against him. The exquisite friction builds, burn sharpening into tiny explosions of white-heat in my brain. He urges me on; quiet murmurs against my neck.
“Good girl. Chase it.”
I come in a shuddering mess and sag into him. His thigh stays exactly where I need it, giving me steady, gentle pressure until the after-shocks fade. Fairy lights blur and swim, blinking like they’re judging my choices. My body is blissfully spent, but my conscience is wide awake: I’ve shredded my own rules, while he’s still the one honouring them.
Chapter 29
Myphoneshrieksbesidemy head. I jerk upright, heart pounding, sunlight already sliding across the covers. Monday? Miranda will skin me alive. The ring stops. I spot the tower of Harrod’s bags from yesterday’s spree and let out a shaky breath. Sunday—thank god.
The phone lights again.Dadglows on the screen, and my stomach lurches. Last time he called me was over a year ago, only because Mum was in hospital.
“Dad? Is Mum all right?”
“She’s perfectly fine.” His clipped tone could slice glass. “You’d know if you came home occasionally instead of running around London with rock stars.”
There it is—the guilt-trip opener.
“What thefuckdo you want, Dad?” I drop the word like a stone, because he hates that I swear.
“I walked down to the Co-op for mySunday Timesand ended up buying theMirror, theMail, and even theStar. Couldn’t believemy eyes—there you are on every front page, holding hands with someboyand kissing him like you wanted it on record.”
“He’s twenty-six, Dad, and he’s a drummer.”
“Drummer, singer—doesn’t matter. He looks like he dresses in the dark. Honestly, Rachel, first you throw Pierre over and now this. Pierre wore a proper suit, spoke three languages, treated you with respect—”
“Pierre dumped me, remember? He wanted to shag his twenty-three-year-old assistant and decided I was optional.”
“I’m sure you pushed him,” Dad mutters. “A man like that doesn’t walk away unless he’s driven.”
Heat claws up my neck. “Believe what you like, but Pierre’s ancient history.”
