Page 51 of Wilder at Heart
She eyes my naked chest. ‘Like they say in McDonald’s: no shirt, no service.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ I mutter. ‘Whose flat is this, anyway?’ But I turn on my heel and go fetch a t-shirt like a good boy. I’m not really in a position to give her a hard time. I’ve given her enough grief already.
NORA
Because Theo’scomplied with my request that he cover up that insane body of his with a t-shirt, I comply with his request to get some air and follow him out onto the terrace with my plate in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. There’s a comfy sectional sofa that takes up three sides of a square. He settles in onecorner and I sit myself down in the opposite corner and study him.
He looks like hell, but he’s still gorgeous. He’s found a sky-blue t-shirt that makes his olive skin pop, and stuck a baseball cap over his damp hair. There are violet shadows under his eyes, and his designer-stubble-slash-beard is a little unkempt. It’shot, and it’s even hotter because I know how it feels against my skin when he’s really, really kissing me. When he’s grinding his face against mine.
It feels like sin.
He takes a sip from the double espresso he’s made himself, and his head lolls back against the cushions as he lets out a huge sigh. His plate is balanced on his thighs, and I can’t help but check out his legs, laid out on the sofa in my direction. They’re delicious: tanned and covered in dark hair, which I’m surprisingly into. Jonathan’s body hair is as golden as the hair on his head, but Theo’s hairiness is kind of primal. He has athlete’s legs: meaty, muscular quads and shapely calves. The guy even has nicefeet, for God’s sake.
‘Feeling rough?’ I ask. I’m not sure how I feel right now—sexually frustrated and mortified and relieved and lots of other things that have had me tossing and turning since too early this morning. I can’t help but think Theo’s puking incident was the most well-timed chunder ever, because our evening was going in a very unwise direction before that. And no matter how horrifyingly turned on I was, I’m delighted he inadvertently saved us from ourselves.
He groans and sets his espresso down on the table. ‘Yeah. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.’
I stiffen. ‘It’s fine, honestly.’
‘Come here.’ He takes a bite that’s almost half of one half of his sandwich and puts the plate down beside him, patting the space next to his legs.
‘Um… what?’
‘Here,’ he says with his mouth full. ‘Gimme your feet.’
At least, I think that’s what he says. I eye up the expanse of sofa next to his long, hairy legs. ‘No way.’
‘Feet, Belle. Put your legs up here.’
I glare at him and gingerly twist so I can prop my legs along the sofa. Next to his but not touching. Definitely not touching. The way I’m sitting, his feet are almost at my hips.
He rips another bite of sandwich off like a caveman and chomps before taking one of my feet and laying it across his thigh. I twitch and try to pull my foot away, but he has my ankle in a tight grip.
‘Fuck, this sandwich is good.’
‘Theo. What are you doing?’
‘Apology foot rub.’
‘Honestly. No way. Not necessary.’
‘Yesway.What did I tell you about physical contact, sweetheart? I love this shit. So unless you’re a foot-rub-hating freak, I suggest you let me get on with it.’
He accompanies this command with a strong sweep of my instep with his thumb, and I nearly jolt out of my seat. Jesus, that’s good. As is the contact my calf is making with his hard, hairy thigh.
‘Okay.’ My consent comes out as a sigh as I yield to his magic hands. When my leg goes floppy, he lets go of my ankle and adds his other hand to the job, stopping every few seconds to pick up and devour the rest of his sandwich. I rest my head back on the cushions and watch him through my eyelashes. His head is dipped, the peak of his cap concealing his eyes and casting shadows over his cheekbones. So really, I just get mouth and beard.
Which is absolutely fine with me.
I’m not really into physical contact. Not like Olaf over there. I’m not touchy-feely. Except with Elle, I suppose. But something about Theo’s total ease with feeling people up makes me less self-conscious than I should be. Case in point: this foot massage. Or on the sun lounger at Sorrel Farm. Or, ahem, last night.
His teeth tug on his bottom lip as he works, kneading my arch, squeezing my toes, getting his strong thumb right in there under the balls of my feet so I flinch and then moan, because it’s that good. Warmth is flooding outwards from my foot as I lie here in the sun with him, nibbling on my sandwich.
At my moan, he lets out a little laugh, but it doesn’t sound amused.
‘The only way this is going to work, sweetheart, is if you don’t sound like you’re having an orgasm while I do it, because I’m on thin ice here.’
Oh myGod. I jerk my foot backwards, but he grabs my ankle.
