Page 157 of Pretty Mess

“She left a letter at my godfather’s house telling whoever was concerned, which I have to say wasn’t many people by then, that she couldn’t live without my father and that she was going to reunite us with him.”

My whole body goes stiff with shock, and I scan his shadowed face, unable to believe what I’ve heard. Not wanting to believe it.

“So that’s my tale, Wes. Luckily for me, my godfather took me in. He didn’t have any children of his own. He was a lovely man—gentle and kind and so fucking normal it astonished me at first. You’d have liked him.”

“When did he die?”

“When I was at university. I still miss him.”

“Why did you tell me this?” I whisper. “Why now?”

His eyes widen. “Because you wanted to know me.”

“I wanted to know things about you, but I don’teverwant you to bleed yourself out just to make me happy,” I say fiercely. “Never that, Mac Reilly.”

“It wasn’t just for you,” he says softly. “I always held back from you in the past, but it never felt right, and in the end, I just don’t want to do that anymore.”

“Mac?” I hesitantly draw him into a hug.

At first, he stiffens and holds himself back. I go to release him, because I’d never hug someone who doesn’t want it. But suddenly, he rests against me, his face pressing against my neck. His breathing is rushed and warm, and his eyelashes flutter against my skin. I rub my hand through his hair, the other arm holding him as close as I can.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“I don’t want pity,” he says thickly. “I didn’t tell you for that. This isn’t a manoeuvre to get you back into bed.”

“Babe.” I press kisses into his head, holding him so hard I’m sure I’ll leave bruises. “That would be the worst foreplayever.”

There’s a startled silence, and then he snorts. I press my own smile into his temple. Eventually, he pulls away and straightens up, rubbing his face briskly, and the moment is over. Nevertheless, I grab his hand.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say solemnly. “I wish I could have been there for you.”

“I wish you had too, Wes. You have a wonderful way about you.”

By unspoken consent we start to walk again. We don’t talk anymore about sensitive subjects, but I stay close, holding his hand and letting my body provide whatever comfort it can.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” I say as we stop by the house. Night has fallen, and the sky is a dark navy velvet studded with stars. The wind is fierce now, buffeting us about. I hesitate and then say in a rush. “Why did you?”

His words are solemn, and the sweetness in his tone brings tears to my eyes. “Because I’ve been alone a long time, Wes, and I was always comfortable with it before.”

“Before what?”

His face is wry but shockingly gentle. “Before you, of course. Somewhere along the line, you made solitary start to look a lot more like loneliness.”

nineteen

The wind howls around the house, making the windows rattle, and the sound of the surf is loud. It’s cold suddenly, as if summer has ended.

I fidget under the bedclothes. The bed linen has a thread count that is undoubtedly extortionately expensive, and the pillows and mattress are comfortable, but I still can’t settle. I’ve been lying here for the last hour, staring up at the beams on the ceiling and straining my ears for any sound of Mac. There’s been nothing.

In contrast to the moments on the beach, the evening had been light and lovely. We’d eaten the Indian takeaway he’d ordered, and he hadn’t checked his phone once. All his attention was on me, and I’d soaked that up like a sponge. Instead of retreating to his office, he’d cleared the table and taught me to play backgammon amid a great deal of laughter and piss-taking.

He’d been an exhilarating opponent, mainly because he made no concessions to my newbie status. It’s one of the things I like best about him. He’s honest. When he gives a compliment, I know he really means it, and so I take it to heart. I felt his equal for the first time tonight. Maybe he was right, and that moment on the beach had to happen for us to move onto an even footing.

Then we’d climbed the stairs, and he’d left me with a kiss on my cheek and a murmured, “Sweet dreams.” He’d vanished into his bedroom and left me in the state I’m in now—confused and horny.Veryhorny.

I can’t stop thinking about how it feels when we’re together. The weight of him on me, the scent of our sex and sweat mingling. The stretch as his cock fills me. No one has ever done that as well as him.

I’m moving before I even realise what I’m going to do. Throwing the sheets back, I jump out of bed and make my way to the door. The iron latch is cold in my hands, and for a second, I hesitate. If I climb back into his bed, it will be incredibly difficult to climb back out. And somehow, I know it will be difficult for him to let me go, too. He doesn’t talk about feelings, but I know he’s missed me. Maybe not as much as I’ve missed him—that had been a painful and devastating loss.