Page 32 of A Wedding in a Week

He captures my next groan, his tongue so deep in my mouth, and I’ve hooked up plenty, but this—Marc on top, wringing pleasure from me, feeding my sounds back to me—is the hottest thing I’ve done in my whole life.

Or it would be if I got him off at the same time as me.

I fumble with his belt but my grip’s a traitorous bastard.

I’m clumsy.

Marc isn’t. He’s entirely focussed, a man on a mission, and that’s getting me off. His thumb catches my frenulum just right, rubs it, and who knew that would turn out to be a final trigger? Not me. My climax roars through me regardless, no way to stop or slow it, and right there, right then, with Marc sitting back to watch spunk pulse out onto my bare belly, I wouldn’t change this outcome. Not when he’s feral again, all shining teeth and bright eyes, and I sink back, each aching bone in my body suddenly loose and easy.

I needed that.

No, I needed him—us—like this together, even if he does wipe his hand clean on my shirt. It’s a small and sticky price to pay for him grinning. I reach for his belt again but he must spot what I don’t notice for another few seconds, and he lurches sideways off me again.

This time he doesn’t come back.

I only register that John’s come back to the yard instead of going home when he parks his car next to the Land Rover.

Marc’s fast enough for us both.

He yanks my shirt down as I struggle to pull up my trousers. He also says something but all I hear is the kind of thunder in my ears that would worry me if I didn’t know my heart had a clean bill of health. That thunder means I don’t hear what Marc says as he straightens his own shirt, one I don’t remember pulling free to get my hands under.

I don’t recall running my hands through his hair either, but he smooths it with shaking fingers, a last petal falling before he turns to me, and fuck only knows what he sees, but I have a few names for what crosses his face.

There’s passion, if slightly fading, and humour, which increases. I grasp why once my hearing comes back online. “You might want to cover that before John gets an eyeful.”

I stare at him uncomprehending, which is no surprise while my brain’s starved of oxygen, the outline of my cock still swollen. It throbs when Marc bends over to scoop up fallen leaflets, dumping them in my lap as John ambles over.

I do hear what he says to John after winding down the window, telling him about our wedding-fair visit, and I cover the remainder of arousal that has nothing to do with the business Marc discusses.

“Yeah, it was great. We made a ton of useful contacts.” I also see his quick glance my way, a tooth digging into his lip again. “We’ll make some more business contacts tomorrow, maybe.” He hesitates. “Over that meal, yeah?”

It takes longer to register his inflection.

That was Marc checking I meant my dinner invitation. Of course I did. I’m surprised he doubts it, so I find my voice fast. “S-shall I go ahead and book somewhere for us?”

He nods as if he can’t see John covering a grin with his hand, and do you know what?

I don’t care if my right-hand man just heard me stutter while looking like I’ve done a whole lot more than spent time with caterers and florists.

I can’t care, not when, business related or not, dinner tomorrow with Marc can’t come soon enough for me.

12

We all share breakfast the next day, or we do until Marc disappears while I’m busy rooting through a cupboard for the coffee grinder. I try pouring beans into it one-handed, and several skitter.

John snorts from behind a copy of the Farmers Weekly. “Fresh-ground coffee this morning, is it, Stef? Can’t recall you being a fan.”

I’m not, and he knows that, but me shrugging while using a spoon instead of pouring the beans only means I spill more.

John turns a magazine page. “Don’t remember you ever getting beans out of the freezer and grinding a fresh brew for your brother.” I hear him turn another page, slow and deliberate. “Pretty sure you told him to make his own if instant wasn’t good enough for him. Anyone would think you wanted to make breakfast special for someone.”

I turn quickly then, only to see that Marc’s not in his seat getting a ringside view of John’s entirely accurate teasing—teasing that stops right away at whatever John sees on my face. “No need to look so panicked. Marc hasn’t disappeared off to London again. He only stepped outside with his phone.”

“I’m not panicked.”

John snorts again, and I’m tempted to rescind my let’s-all-eat-together offer until he points at Dad’s photo on the wall beside me. “He used to get the same look before he got your mother well and truly locked down.”

“Locked down?” Maybe blushing is contagious. I turn my back before John can see mine. Then I grind beans without making more of a mess, or at least I try to. Once done, I say, “How very romantic.”

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