Page 69 of Commitment Issues
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Elliot
It’s a habit I could get used to. Freddie feels good in my arms, strong but lithe and supple. He kisses like he’s savouring a fine wine, and taking his time. Nothing’s rushed, the kisses we share are long and lingering.
I pull him in closer and he yields into my arms, my heart tripping when he moans and sighs into my mouth, and pushes deeper. But it’s not the kissing that makes my skin tingle and my stomach flip. It’s the tender way he caresses my face, the way his fingers drift through my hair as though he’s taking his time to know me once more.
The need to breathe pulls us apart. At the end of the long garden, the light from the flares, and spilling from the kitchen, can’t reach us and we’re lit by moonlight alone.
It’s perfect, until angry shouting and pleading crash in on us.
“Domestic,” Freddie mutters, as a couple, oblivious to everybody but themselves, make their angry way towards us. “Come on.” Freddie grabs my hand, pulling me up and leading me back to the house, leaving the warring couple behind us.
Just before we step back into the kitchen, Freddie cocks his head to one side, groaning and laughing at the same time.
“Whenever Cosmo’s had too much to drink, he always does this.”
“What?” And then I hear it, the strangled cries of a chicken being slaughtered for the pot.
“Karaoke.”
“James is exactly the same. It must be genetic. I’m going to keep out of the way, because if James sees me, he’ll try and get me up there to duet with him. The last time I got caught, he made me sing Dancing Queen with him.” I shiver, and Freddie laughs.
“Yeah, let’s keep out of their way. Erm, I’m going to make a cuppa if you’re interested?” I meet his eyes, remembering as we tussled for the box of tea bags, and the first time I’d nearly kissed him.
The kitchen’s empty, the remaining guests joining in with the karaoke, and I wince as I hear James’ squawking.
“That is seriously painful, and I suspect it’s causing irreparable damage to my eardrums,” Freddie says as he hands over the tea. He bites down on his lip as indecision races across his face. “Look, do you want to come upstairs? What I mean is, do you want to come upstairs to my room?”
He groans, and lets his head drop back.
“That sounds like some cheesy line, and it’s not what I mean.” He looks me square in the face, a hard flush colouring his cheeks. “I don’t want to be dragged into karaoke, so if they can’t find us we can’t be.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea. And don’t worry, I’ve heard cheesier lines.” I give him a smile I hope looks a lot more confident and assured than I’m feeling.
And that small, shy smile reappears, the smile I’ve not been able to get out of my thoughts over the past month since France. I’ve missed it so damn much and as I look at him, warmth nestles deep in my chest.
“Then we need these.” He rummages through a cupboard, and a second or two later he’s holding an unopened packet of custard creams, a big grin spread across his face. “Now we’re tooled up.”
I followed him up the stairs, to the top of the house, and to his room.
“I think it’s tidy,” he says, grimacing, before opening up and letting me in.
The room’s large, and screams Freddie, a mix of serious and fun. A double bed’s wedged up against the wall, and the duvet’s slightly rumpled as though he’d roughly straightened it when he got up. Along another wall, a large desk takes up a lot of the space, the shelving either side rammed with books. Every available inch of space is covered in posters and photographs. A huge, old-looking, and ornate map of Scandinavia takes a central place, alongside an elaborate family tree.
“Is this your family?” I take a few steps closer, and peer hard.
Freddie’s laughter rings in my ears as his warm breath wafts over me, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
“No. That’s a tree depicting the genealogy of the Norse kings. I don’t come from such exalted stock.”
I look a little closer. “Erik the Eunuch.”
He snorts. “So you were listening to me,” he says, both surprised and pleased.
“Of course I was. I listened to every word you said to me.”
My gaze shifts to a nearby collage of photos. “Who?” but I don’t need to ask.
