Page 103 of Short Stack 3

“And the writing is dreadful. Never take a job judging the Booker Prize. Your shortlist would be full of turgid prose and plots that wouldn’t have confused Noddy.”

“I think the Booker Prize is already turgid, so someone obviously got there before me. And don’t diss Noddy. His intelligence was always tragically overshadowed by that bell on his hat.” I fall back into the sheets. “Anyway, you can talk. What on earth made you think I wanted a book about the different architectural styles of churches?”

“Maybe to help your tarnished soul.” He shrugs. “You would need more than a book for that. Even holy water would struggle.”

I snort and then roll over to straddle him, knocking his book into the mess of sheets.

“Oh dear, my book might be lost for good. What a tragedy,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Too bad,sosad. Let us not look for it again. It can be lost for eternity, yes?”

“Or until your stepmother does the laundry.”

“Ah. Maybe I will make a present of the book to my father and praise the author’s use of language. It will drive his competitive nature wild, and I will be happy thinking of him trying to read that mess.”

“You’re a very hard man.”

He bucks his hips under me, so I feel his cock against my backside. “As it should be, yes?”

I curl my fingers into his broad shoulders, feeling the rough silk of his skin stretched tight over the bones and muscles of his strong body. Then I rock back against his dick, feeling it kiss my hole and hearing his hiss of arousal with satisfaction. His eyes have narrowed, their gaze molten.

“Are you actually considering having sex with me under your father’s roof?” I enquire conversationally.

He purses his lips. “Would you be shocked if I said yes?”

“Good heavens, no. I’m just mourning the fact that I left my ribbon bag at home. I had a nice Campbell tartan. It’ssucha shame to waste that.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, I will close my eyes and think of England. Every man must do his duty.”

“Thank you, Admiral Nelson.”

I take his lips in a hard kiss. I’m gratified when I pull back to see those clever eyes are now clouded with lust.

I’m just bending back to him when the screaming starts.

I jackknife up, looking around wildly. “What thefuckis that?”

He stretches under me. “Ignore it.”

“Ignore what? The fact that a banshee is apparently in residence in the room next to us?”

“It is just my stepmother.”

“What? That’sDorothy? Dorothy of the hairband who quotedAnne of Green Gablesat the dinner table?”

“She and my father have a rather temperamental marriage.”

The screaming extends in volume. “I don’t think temperamental is the word you’re looking for.”

He rests his big hands on my hips, holding me still. “Oh, what is?”

“Why don’t you shut up?” his dad’s voice shouts.

Something smashes in the next room, and Mags makes a moue of displeasure as I climb off him but then immediately rolls into me, resting his head on my chest. I stroke his hair back, feeling him push into my hand. I would never have guessed that Magnus Carlsen, the scourge of the Old Bailey, is a cuddler. It makes me warm all over that this big man is so vulnerable with me.

“You flirted with her!” comes the scream from next door. “I want tokillyou.”

I lick my lips. “Oh my. This is likeDynasty.”

“I would happily spend time on that set if I didn’t have to listen to this again.”

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