Page 97 of Wilder at Heart
‘Morning.’ I stare shamelessly at him, drinking him up. I can’t see much below his collarbones, but he’s topless.
Naked, probably.
Jesus. I press my thighs tightly together.
‘Let me drive you down.’
He’s doing the Mafia-boss-with-puppy-dog-eyes thing. I can’t bear it.
‘Don’t you have work to do?’
‘I have a modern contraption called a laptop. It’s amazing—I can take it anywhere. And it’s a gorgeous day. I’d rather work out of Sorrel Farm than be stuck in London. Come on, sweetheart.’
I consider. I do have a stack of wedding stationery to cart down with me: name cards and menus for the tables as well as the order of service.
‘No car sex.’
That dirty grin. ‘No car sex.’
I clarify. ‘No sex of any kind.’
‘Done. We’re friends, Belle. I want to be your mate. This is something I can help you with, so throw me a bone. Besides, seeing you makes me happy. I miss having you around, you know?’
Well, I can’t argue with that, can I?
I don’t letany of my other ‘friends’ hold my hand the entire way on a car journey, their fingers grazing my thigh. But none of my other friends are as touchy-feely and boundary-less as Theo Montague.
(Also: none of them are as hot as him. So.)
My body is so ecstatic to see him it’s both tiresome and tiring. Of course it’s ecstatic. It’s been conditioned to expect earth-shattering rewards when Romeo’s in the vicinity. We’re all dopamine addicts these days. I just need to find a new form of dopamine hit to replace him with.
Like extending the amount of time I allow myself on Pinterest.
Or with my vibrator.
That said, I would appreciate my head having some sort of superiority to my lady parts when it comes to how I actually act. I don’t act on my baser urges. I am a planner. If I can make a career out of planning things, surely I can manage it for my personal life, too. My body would respond to Theo as needily as Olive did when he picked us up, if I let it.
I refuse to be the woman who chooses a life partner based on orgasms alone. Even if the wonderful, stable life I envisage with Jonathan manifests as a soft, contented glow in my mind’s eye as opposed to the nuclear-level blinding light of what it’s like to be with Theo.
It appears said bestower of sanity-destroying orgasms is still keeping up the fake-boyfriend facade for Evelyn, because when we turn up at the farm, he waits around with me in thecharming courtyard till she appears, his arm draped lazily over my shoulder, the heat of his body searing into my side.
‘My favourite couple,’ she quips as she greets us. She’s in what looks like full-on Chanel and has a sweet little black spaniel with her. He and Olive make an excited beeline for each other’s bums, settling into a bumbling circle that’s like a rotating sixty-nine.
‘This is Charlie.’ She nudges him with her foot. ‘He hasn’t got the memo that his balls have left the building. He’s still a total tart.’
‘Just like Theo,’ I comment, before remembering that he’s supposed to be a devoted monogamist.
‘Reformedtart, thank you very much.’ Theo’s hand slides down my arm and around my waist, tugging me to him more tightly. ‘Once I met this one, I realised quality was far more satisfying than quantity. Right, baby?’
He presses his lips to my temple and I close my eyes for a second, to more fully absorb the sensation. I force a smile.
‘Right.’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he tells me and Evelyn. ‘And I’ll see you at noon for that coffee, right, Evelyn?’
‘In the Oast House,’ she promises.
I look up at him. ‘Huh?’
