Page 16

I limp across the room, balancing on the doorframe, then the side of the bookshelf, then the wall, like a very determined Frankenstein’s monster in boxer briefs.

Amy raises an eyebrow. “Look at you! Way better than last week.”

“Aye,” I grunt, catching the edge of a barstool. “I walk like a wee bairn who’s just discovered balance, gravity, and shame.”

She laughs, hoisting the box up onto the table.

“I told the delivery guy I didn’t have any cash for a tip, and he just smiled and said it was already taken care of. Apparently the sender’s one of their favorites.”

We exchange a look.

She lifts the lid.

And holy shite .

It’s not just a gift. It’s an event .

Inside the insulated box is a meticulously arranged spread, as if someone bought an upscale wine bar and shrunk it down to fit in a carton.

There’s a slate board overflowing with creamy brie, sharp cheddar wedges, and veins of blue cheese marbled like a map of our future heart attacks.

Ribbons of prosciutto and folds of salami curl between piles of dried apricots and figs.

Honeycomb glistens next to cracked walnuts and candied pecans.

There are herbed olives, dark chocolate almonds, and tiny ramekins of mustard and fig jam.

Nestled on the side is a row of chocolate-dipped strawberries so fat, they look genetically modified, glossy and lacquered, each with a tiny fleck of edible gold leaf.

And in the center?

A small bottle of excellent single malt whisky—Glendronach, twenty-one years, nestled like treasure in a bed of straw.

Amy stares.

I whistle.

“Well, love,” I say, reaching for a slice of salami, “looks like we don’t need ta worry about lunch.”

"Who sent this? Is there a card?" she asks, looking around. "Jody?"

"Jody?" I laugh. "The last thing Jody would send to your address is a spread like this. He's worrit I've gained a kilo or ten.”

Her eyes take me in, shirtless as I am. She licks her lips. "If you have, you carry it well."

"Flattery will get ye another bangin'."

"I don't need to flatter you to get that."

This woman knows me too well.

She plucks a chocolate-covered fig and pops it in her mouth, eyes fluttering shut like someone having a religious experience. “This is pornographic.”

“I agree. And I intend ta defile every inch of it.”

“Was this you?” she asks, swallowing. “Did you set this up?”

I shake my head. “I wish. If I had, it would’ve been just a wheel o’ cheese the size of’ ma arse and a note sayin’ ‘Eat this and then come ride me again.’”

She snorts so hard, she nearly chokes on an almond.

“Seriously,” she says, licking chocolate from her thumb, “who sent this?”

I consider.

“Maybe it was yer mum.”

Amy narrows her eyes. “That would mean the fruit was judgmental and the cheese came with a seating chart at Farmington.”

I pop a strawberry in my mouth and wink. “Well, whoever it was… they deserve sainthood.”

She leans over the table, hoodie sagging just low enough to make me twitch again.

“Better finish lunch quick,” I warn her, “before I lose ma head and mount ye on the charcuterie board.”

She raises a brow. “You think you could manage that with the brace?”

I grab the whisky bottle and tap it on the table like a gavel.

“Wee dram first. Then we’ll negotiate.”

Finally, we find the card. It’s heavy cream paper, with no way of knowing who it's from, but inside, in neat flowery handwriting, it reads:

To your continued recovery and wedded bliss. We're here for you, whatever it takes.

"Wedding Protectors!" Amy gasps. "How sweet!"

"I dinna ken about sweet. We're payin' their premium rate now that our mithers keep calling and emailing and faxing them. Did Marie buy a passenger pigeon just so she could find another way to bother them?"

"As if Fiona's any better?"

I pull her into my arms, a goat cheese-stuffed date in my mouth. "Mmmm mmmm… Na. They're two peas in a pod. I dinna want to talk about them right now, especially as Round Two is still on the table."

"You mean, the table is on the table? We need to eat and clear some space before we can use it as an event location," Amy teases.

Turns out chocolate-dipped strawberries are an aphrodisiac.

So are figs. And honeycomb. And the way Amy licks her fingers when she thinks I’m not watching.

Correction: Everything she does is an aphrodisiac.

The couch is too small for the two of us, especially when she folds her legs beneath her and leans forward to grab a cluster of candied pecans, the hem of my hoodie lifting just enough to show the curve of her arse, barely concealed by the joggers she never finished tying.

My erection returns, a loyal hound answering a whistle.

“We were talkin’ about lunch,” I murmur, setting my whisky glass down on a coaster shaped like a lobster. I've stuck to one finger of Scotch, which is nine fewer fingers than I want all over Amy's body. “But I’m afraid I’m gonna need a different kind o’ course now.”

Amy turns her head slowly, chewing thoughtfully. “Hamish. Are you hitting on me while I have a mouth full of salami?”

“Aye. It’s part of the fantasy.”

She snorts, licking a drop of honey off her palm.

I groan. “Right, then. That’s it. Up. Now.”

Her brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Stand up, hen. Turn around. Face the back o’ the couch.”

“The couch?” she repeats, still holding a chunk of brie.

“Trust me.”

She does. Mostly because she knows I’m a man on a mission, but also because she’s halfway through a chocolate-covered apricot and doesn’t want to pause the flavor journey.

I guide her gently. “Bend over.”

“Hamish!”

I grin. “Play along.”

She bends slightly, peeking back at me. “This is the least erotic I’ve ever felt in my own living room.”

I step back, eyeing the angle.

“Back’s too low. Can’t get proper leverage. I’d need stilts or a ramp.”

Amy straightens. “Did you just say the couch needs a ramp? ”

“Onward.”

“Onward?”

“To the armchair.”

She pads over, curious now, hips swaying like she knows I’m watching and loves it.

“Bend again. There.”

She folds over the arm of the chair, hair spilling over the side. She could model for shampoo adverts.

I crouch slightly, assess the line of her back, tap my chin.

“Hmm. Nah. Too soft. I’ll sink. It’s like shagging on a marshmallow. We’d disappear. Today is nae day for 911 calls.”

She’s laughing now, eyes gleaming. “You are unleashed. One orgasm inside me and now you've gone feral.”

“I’m a director, love. This is art. We’re just scoutin’ the right set.”

“Is there going to be a clapper board?”

“There’s gonna be a clappin’, if ye keep talkin’ like that.”

I lead her to the bookshelf.

“No! My special editions! No body fluids allowed on those.”

“The window sill.”

“Absolutely not. That's like giving the North End free live porn.”

“The kitchen counter?”

“Do you want me to get salmonella?”

“Tempting. But nae.”

Finally, I spot it.

The little straight-backed chair in the corner. Sturdy, a bit neglected, but noble.

“That’s it.”

Amy follows my gaze, then looks back at me slowly. “You want me to bend over the sad wooden chair from the corner?”

“No,” I say, suddenly all business. “I want ye ta drag it over here. Precisely three feet from the edge of the table. Back of the chair facing me. And the table edge behind me. Just a few inches. Not touchin’, but... implyin’–suggestin’–intimatin’ structural support.”

She squints. “Are we having sex or assembling IKEA furniture?”

“This is precision engineering.”

“This is foreplay by way of mechanical engineering.”

“And it’s workin’, isn’t it?”

She stares at me. Then, grinning like the chaos imp she is, she drags the chair across the pine floor with a screech that would terrify small children.

Once it’s in place, I adjust the angle by hand. Measure a palm’s width between the table and my back. Press down on the chair to test stability. Nod with satisfaction.

“Chair’s set. Table’s the anchor. I’ve got a stable bracin’ point fer ma bad leg. That’s why they call it a brace, y’see. It’s all in the etymology.”

Amy crosses her arms. “Do I get to bend now, or do I need to sign a release form first? Do we need an insurance rider? An actuary?”

“Bend, woman. Bend and bless this chair with yer glorious arse and I'll get to riding, yes?”

She rolls her eyes but does it. Hands on the seat, knees slightly bent, hoodie sliding up her back as she rests her weight down with surprising elegance.

I step behind her, palms skimming over her hips, slowly sliding the waistband of her joggers down until they puddle at her ankles.

No underwear, of course.

My hands are back on her hips, tracing the curve with a kind of awe that should really be reserved for something more than a basic shag, but then again, what could be holier?

Amy’s bent perfectly over the chair, hoodie bunched at her waist, her bare skin warm and flushed beneath my palms. Her arse is a thing of architectural wonder. A Michelangelo carving with just enough give to make me question physics.

And she’s wet .

I slide a finger between her thighs and find heat, slick and eager, as if her body is already five steps ahead of us. I press lightly on her clit, just to say hello, and she gasps, a soft, needy sound that shoots straight down my spine.

Through to my root.

“Hamish,” she warns, but her hips shift back, greedy.

“Aye, love?” I say innocently, circling her slowly with two fingers now. “Just appreciatin’. Love the tone of yer skin. Love yer symmetry, yer composition. Yer... depth of field.”

“I swear to God,” she pants, rocking back against my hand, “if you make another camera reference?—”

“Gotta light the scene properly,” I murmur, bending over her back to kiss her neck, one hand braced on the chair, the other never leaving that sweet, pulsing spot between her legs. “Contrast. Shadow. Highlight. Motion blur.”

She moans, low and helpless, and it hits me in the gut.

Oh, how long I’ve missed this. Not just the sex, but the way she comes alive like this.

The way we come alive like this. The spontaneous joy of the moment.

It’s like I’ve been living in grayscale for a month and suddenly everything’s saturated again. Full color, full sound, full body.

And I’m back .

Not just hard–which, to be clear, I very much am–but present . Capable. In control of my body again in the one way I didn’t think I’d be for a long time.

I stroke her again, firmer now, and she keens.

“Hamish,” she pleads, arching into me, arse pushing back. “I need?—”

“I know.”

I grab myself, guiding in with a slow, precise thrust, careful not to torque the knee brace but strong enough to fill her all at once. My hips ache with the positioning but it's a good ache, the kind that's a sacrifice for something more.

Her cry chokes off into a moan.

My groan’s not much better, guttural and loud, a noise that bounces off the flat’s walls, a declaration of war on celibacy.

We stay still for a beat, her muscles clenching around me, my good leg set firmly on the floor, my bad one stabilized by the table behind me.

“Fucking hell , love,” I pant. “You feel... Christ. You feel so good again.”

She looks back at me, wild-eyed and gorgeous. “Then move, already.”

So I do.

Slow at first, just rocking into her with steady, deliberate thrusts. Her hips meet mine like she’s been waiting her whole life for this rhythm. I keep one hand at her hip, the other sliding up her back, gripping the nape of her neck just enough to make her shiver.

The brace restricts my range a bit, but it doesn’t matter.

This works. More than works.

It’s magic .

Because I’m pounding her. Properly . No holding back, no careful workaround (other than my geometric formula and a good grip on the table), no apologetic cuddling and calling it a night.

Just raw, joyful, connected movement. Her breath hitches with every stroke, her body blooming around me, and I feel powerful again.

Not famous. Not athletic. Not even sexy.

Just hers .

“God, Hamish,” she groans. “You’re–oh, my God–you’re so deep like this.”

I grin, breathless and smug. “Engineering, hen. Chair. Table. Precision.”

“Don’t bring up measurements right now.”

“Three-point contact,” I say, thrusting harder. “Structural triangulation.”

“I’m going to murder you.”

“No, ye won’t. Ye’ll come all over me first.”

She whimpers at that, and I feel it, her body tightening, pulling me deeper, clutching like a velvet magnet. I move faster, chasing it with everything I’ve got, the edge building in me, a wave rising behind a dam.

“Come for me,” I growl. “Come on, Amy. Show me. Show me ye’re mine.”

She shatters with a cry so loud, I think we both might get evicted. Her orgasm pulses around me, heat and motion and sheer ecstasy, and I let go, slamming in deep and pouring every ounce of frustration and devotion and need into her.

We collapse forward together, still joined, breathless and shaking, the chair creaking ominously beneath us. My hips won't let me completely rest on her, but I can feel my sacrum stretching, my knee twinging just enough to warn.

Amy laughs, ragged. “If this chair breaks, you owe me a new one.”

“I owe ye a life , hen.”

I kiss her spine.

She sighs.

For the first time in a month, I feel hope again. Real hope. The kind you might find at the root of your todger, when it’s drained dry by sheer determination.

With a woman like Amy by your side.

Or on top of you.

Or bent over a chair....