Page 40 of Rookie Recovery

“Trying to get a good mental image of me in bed, ay? No, I don’t stay in my old room. I used to share it with Theo and Finley. It’s only a three-bed house. So when Harry moved out, Finley stole that room. I could stay with my parents, but I’d have to bunk with one of my younger brothers. Finley has this girlfriend he’s always on the phone with, and I don’t fancy hearing their phone sex, and Theo’s a gamer. He has headphones, but when it’s like three o’clock in the morning and he’s screaming ‘Bot!’ and ‘He’s behind the barrels!’ it’s not much fun.”

“Three bedrooms for …” Jamie did a quick mental calculation. “Seven people?” He leaned heavier on my leg.

“You’re forgetting everything is smaller in Britain. Also, lol, there are no hotels in Bruton Willesbury. You can stay at the pub. It’s a B&B, but I usually stay with Olly.”

“In his low-ceilinged, chocolate-box cottage?”

“Right.”

I smiled. This overlap between my two lives, my two personalities, between Archie and Bowie, felt strange, and … right. Like Jamie was letting me be me. Like he wanted to see the guy behind the unfaltering self-assuredness.

“Give it some welly. I’m bendier than you think,” I said, keeping the same softness in my voice to let him know I was enjoying the conversation. I wanted him to ask me more. I wanted to know what Jamie thought of Archie.

Just the teeniest eye-roll. He pushed further still. The muscle began singing. That point where the stretch felt so fucking good. Riding the fine line between pleasurable and why, God, why?

“Does Olly have a family, or is he single?”

“Why? You in the market? Yes, he’s single. Gay, too. So’s Harry.”

“That’s great your folks are cool with that.”

“Honestly, I think as long as we’re happy and we like rugby, they wouldn’t care what we did or who we fucked. Harder, Kitty.”

He blinked at me, then leaned in further. My foot stuck up over his shoulder. I decided I enjoyed seeing my feet there.

“Is Harry single as well?”

I raised my eyebrow, even though I was sure my face was turning beetroot red by this point. “Wow, you certainly have a thing for the Bowman boys, don’t you?” I teased. “To be honest, nobody is ever sure with Harry. He doesn’t talk much about himself. He’ll disappear for weeks, no calls or texts, and then one day, he’ll just rock up at Mum and Dad’s for Sunday lunch with, like, a ski-goggles tan line, or a buzz cut. One time he came wearing a tuxedo and sliders and gave literally no explanation.”

Jamie laughed. “It sounds like your mom had her work cut out for her.”

“Kitty,” I said, taking on a serious tone. He pulled his gaze to my face. “Harder.”

“I can’t go harder. I’ll break you.”

“I can take it.”

He shook his head.

“Please.”

He shook his head again and gave me a look, somewhere between an apology and fear, and he pushed harder. His fingertips touched the mat on either side of my waist.

“Harder.”

“Bowie.” He was pleading now, his own face turning red.

“Harder.”

His palms were flat against the mat, his elbows bending more and more. I groaned. Cried out. He copied me.

And still he kept pushing.

It was too much.

But so fucking good.

I’d probably pass out.

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