Page 63 of The Reluctant Billionaire

‘I remember,’ I tell him softly.

‘I’ve got to stick around for a bit after we finish,’ he says. ‘That little lad you fed—Connor. Told him if he managed to get him and his sister to come for a bite this evening, I’d kick a ball round with him for a bit. He’s footie mad. Hoping it’ll do the trick. You happy to hang around?’

I keep my hand on his chest and place it over his heart. The thud-thud of it is grounding. I could put my ear to his chest and listen to that sound all day long.

‘Sure—not a problem,’ I tell him with my words.

You are a good man, Aidan Duffy,I tell him with my heart.

* * *

He is a good man.

I assist Sylvie and Judy and another volunteer called Carl in a token way with dinner duty. The main part of the hall is looking great, and we’ll be finished tomorrow—two days early. Meanwhile, the kids are still being fed outside. These guys claim to have the dinner service handled, but I can’t exactly sit around and do nothing while they work, so I pretend to pack the bags and hand them out to the kids while really ogling my brand-new man.

The football has got slightly out of hand, in that so many other kids wanted to get involved when they saw Aide coaching Connor that it’s turned into a big kick about in the too-small space. Aide ended up digging out a net of balls from one of the cupboards in the hall, and now at least a dozen kids, boys and girls whose ages I’d put somewhere in the seven-to-twelve range, are engaged in keepy-uppies and a bit of dribbling.

But my eyes aren’t on them.

Nope.

They’re on the man who’s coaching them. Who’s exhibiting best practice, and breaking down the stunt, and, if I’m being honest, who’s worked up such a heat in this west-facing inferno of dark tarmac that he’s lost the vest and trousers and is wearing only his socks, trainers, and a pair of Spurs shorts, all of which he must have brought along for the occasion.

And holyhelldoes he look fine.

I swooned alongside the rest of the world whenMaverickcame out and treated us all to that delicious dogfight football scene. But honestly, Rooster and Hangman and their waxed-chested cronies and their aviators and Californian sunlight can take a running jump, because I will take Aide Duffy with his chest hair and fucking incredible body and endless goodheartedness, on a shitty-ripped up piece of tarmac in West London.

Any. Day. Of. The. Week.

‘Bad luck, mate!’ he shouts to one little boy who’s inadvertently kicked his ball too hard, sending it away from himself. ‘Try catching the ball between every keepy-uppy for the moment, yeah? Means you won’t be running around as much.’

It’s lucky I’m wearing sunglasses, because I am eye-fucking that man so hard it’s indecent. Especially when there are so many kids around.

‘Here you go, honey,’ I say to a gangly girl with braces. I practically stuff the paper bag into her arms as I crane my neck to watch Aide doing keepy-uppies. The kids are standing around him, keeping a noisy count, but luckily I’m well positioned to watch him through the gap.

‘Sixty-eight!’ they chant. ‘Sixty-nine!Seventy!’

His movements are measured and seemingly effortless. He keeps the ball in the air with the lightest of flicks from his feet, but I notice, to my intense gratification, that with each kick, the corresponding pec flexes, and my pussy clenches in sync.

He’s sweating hard, and I’m not surprised. The heat’s been building all day, and it’s now sweltering. He rakes his damp hair off his forehead, and I swoon. Sweat glistens on his abs. His pecs. His biceps.

And I swoon. Again.

Every single thing this man does seems fated to make me swoon, basically.

Which is why I cannot wait till we get back to his place to show him how much he turns me on.

* * *

As soon asthe last child has reluctantly left his impromptu football practice, I tell him I need him inside. Urgently. I lead the way into the office, which is stuffy but cooler than it is outside.

‘Fuck,’ he says, wiping his forearm across his forehead, ‘I’m sweating like a pig.’ He tilts his head back to take a swig from his water bottle, and I pause from my task of ramming the back of a chair under the unlockable handle of the office door to watch his Adam’s apple work as he drinks.

The pure masculinity of it has me pressing my thighs together.

‘Mmm-hmm,’ I say, closing the distance between us. I touch my fingertips to the damp valley between his pecs and let them trail down his slick abs.

God.

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