Page 38 of Silver Lining (London Love #6)

H e was already in bed, scrolling on his phone, bare-chested and smiling, having turned the lights off and just left the small bedside one on, soft light bathing him in a warm glow.

The room should have made me feel uncomfortable, yet there was something about today that seemed to have completely changed my mindset, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. I climbed under the covers with a smile on my face.

“I like the roof window,” he said. “I never noticed it before.”

“I always loved it. I was hoping to see the stars at night, but this is London. Not often you can see anything.”

“Clouds. Birds.”

“Planes. Sometimes even a helicopter.”

He laughed quietly.

“I meant what I said.” He moved his arm, allowing me to crawl into his embrace, my head on his chest, soft hairs under my hand as I shuffled into place. “I really loved what we did. That you…let me.”

“I didn’t mind,” I admitted. “I kind of liked that I was… That you took control. It made me feel…”

“It’s not for the faint-hearted, my son said. Being on the receiving end.”

“They call it bottoming these days.”

He grimaced, then smiled. “Bottoming. Sounds rather crude.”

“It’s just a word. Doesn’t matter what you call it. I enjoyed it. I hope we can do it again sometime.”

“When we don’t have a sleeping child next to us. ”

“Constance will have to move downstairs. She’s demanding that we redecorate.”

“Is she now?” He kissed me. Soft. Deep.

“And then Phinney can have his own room.”

“Mmm.” Another kiss.

“And we can indulge in all sorts of shenanigans.”

That made him grin through the kiss he gifted me. His lips on mine, my chest against his. Our bodies helplessly entwined as once again…my phone went off.

“Hello,” I said into the handset, having picked it up out of habit. I’d lived with this for so long now, waiting to hear news. Anything. Hoping and wanting. And now that I had the children here, the fear was still ingrained in me.

“I assume the children are in bed.” Gun Larsen.

“Yes. All is well.”

“Delighted. Veronica will be served papers within the hour. I would recommend you not pick up the phone for the next twenty-four hours or so. Keep quiet. You will be served in the morning. I have the courier departing at eight. Sign the paperwork, Dylan, and have them bring it right back to me. ”

“And what does this paperwork say?” I was barely breathing, Stewart’s hands gently stroking down my back. Under my top. Fingertips around my hips.

“A decent and honest custody agreement. The children reside in the UK. The mother has full visitation rights. If she wishes to share custody, she needs to find a suitable place of habitation nearby so as not to interrupt the children’s schooling.”

“And you think Veronica will sign this?” I shrieked. She wouldn’t. This wasn’t that simple, and definitely not this easy.

“I have that Hendrix by the balls, Dylan, and Veronica understands how this is all done. Neither of them has a leg to stand on here, and Hendrix will ensure she signs. I am more than confident in this. Confident enough that I will say this, Mr Scotland. It’s been a most satisfactory few weeks in your company.

Most amusing. But now I hope I never have to deal with you again.

I’m off to Madrid in the morning to handle a much less amusing project, so I trust you will leave me in peace. ”

“Gun?” I said quietly. Please don’t leave. God. What was I like?

“Don’t be a dormouse, Dylan, it doesn’t suit you.

Go be the father you always were, and be happy.

This nonsense is all done and dusted. And before you ask, yes, all above board.

The children were voluntarily handed over to you, and now they are back on British soil.

We play by the rules and follow the law, and everything is in the paperwork. ”

“Thank you,” I whispered, too shocked to say anything else.

“Say hello to Stewart for me.” She hung up, leaving me lying there on my side, hyperventilating into the phone.

“I heard,” he said quietly. “Well done.”

“I have no idea what she’s done. Me? I haven’t done anything.”

“Yes, you have. You’ve kept your cool, and you’ve kept your promises to the children. They’re home. And whatever those papers say in the morning? We’ll deal with that. Relax. There’s nothing more you can do now.”

“Constance threatened to throw me out the window.”

“Sounds complicated. She’s a small, delicate wisp of a girl.”

“Don’t underestimate her.”

“She’ll be fine. And you’re not going out of any windows. Not on my watch. ”

He turned me around in his arms, causing me to drop my phone on the floor.

Rude maybe? But then, what had Gun said about not answering the phone?

“I think, perhaps, if we stay quiet… Can you stay quiet, Dylan?”

Could I? The smile on his face told a different story. He was up to mischief, and perhaps…

“Maybe?” I whispered. “Don’t wake the kids.”

“I won’t.” His lips nudged my cheek, the corner of my mouth, soft presses of skin against my jaw and a hand gently moving under the hem of my boxers. “I’m going to give you a little hand job. I read up on it. Apparently better with a little bit of lubrication.”

“And have we got…lubrication?” I had to let that little breath out, as his hand moved over my shaft. Up. Down. Fingers carefully exploring. Then disappearing, as he shot me a wink and fiddled with something under the duvet.

He’d made the bed up. Sorted all this.

For me.

Because he loved me. And I loved him right back .

My head fell back as his hand returned, now carrying gifts of smooth silk, a temporarily cool, liquid smoothness against my skin that quickly warmed with the touch of his hand.

Gentle movements down below matched by his mouth mauling my neck, my collarbone, and then finding mine and my tongue doing things I had no control over.

I wanted to be where he was. My mouth on his, his chest against mine as his hand sped up. Small, desperate grunts came out of my mouth, matched by the sounds he was producing.

A firm nudge of his own erection against my leg. My hip.

I grabbed it. Stole a palmful of lubrication from his hand, helped him remove his undergarments.

I didn’t want anything between us. Nothing. Ever again.

“This…good,” I croaked out.

“Shhh.” Teeth scratched against my neck, soft kisses, his words caught on my skin as I gave him what he surely needed.

Friction. Hard jerks to match those he was giving me.

A hand job indeed .

His release almost crushed me as he tensed up at my side, my teeth on his shoulder to keep my own at bay. Just a little more. A little longer.

Harder.

Faster.

“Come for me,” he whispered. “Dylan. Let it go.”

My neck bent back as my body went rigid. Hard. And suddenly nothing mattered, yet everything did. My release into his hand was as violent as the love in my heart.

I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control it. Not anymore.

“There you go,” he whispered against my mouth. “Much better.”

What could I say to that? I had no words left. Instead, I curled up against his shoulder and let sleep claim me.

Because he was absolutely right.

There was nothing else I could do now.

A week later, I woke up to voices downstairs and the bed next to me empty. So was the cot, which made me sit up in my normal state of absolute fear.

Irrational, I knew. Because there was no need to fear anything. Not in this house. Instead, I took the dressing gown off the floor, the same old one I’d owned for years, apart from that these days it was clean and tidy and only worn in the mornings.

I got dressed these days. Crisp shirts and ties to go with my pressed slacks.

My butler saw to that. The thought made me laugh. He was no butler. But he cared, and he cared for me. Like I looked after him.

“Papa!” my son said, running up to me wearing only a pair of underpants. “Papa, camión de bomberos!”

“Fire engine, darling. Good morning!”

“Bah!” he said, my three-year-old. He was picking up Stewart’s bad habits, and I was picking up far too much Spanish.

Not a bad thing, we all agreed, because there was a Spanish playgroup nearby, and the school we’d looked at yesterday was both multilingual and pleasant.

Also just a short walk away, which meant I could get him there and back without too much disruption.

“Morning.”

Oh. Okay. Here I was, in my dressing gown with my three-year-old in my arms. And there, in front of me, was multi-award-winning, Oscar-nominated actor…

“Gray,” he said. “Graham Smith.”

“Oh.” I was no better than my son, stuttering out syllables as my son hit me with a fire engine.

“Phinney, no,” I said, trying to shake hands and look half compos mentis at the same time. Truth was, I was barely lucid, despite Stewart taking Phinney off me and handing me a cup of tea. Like this was how we lived now.

“Gray popped over to say hi. He just flew in this morning. I went and picked him up. Phinney was up, so I brought him along.” Stewart looked guilty just saying that, like he’d somehow overstepped when he’d done nothing of the sort.

If anything, I had, taking him away from his own family.

Taking for granted that instead of a leisurely morning in his own bed, he would simply be here to feed my children breakfast and make me tea.

Take my son out for morning runs in the car.

It was just gone six. God help us all.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” he said, this Gray person, who was apparently Stewart’s son-in-law and was standing there looking like he’d just stepped off a red carpet…

and grinning at me as I gulped air and tried to find suitable words to accompany meeting celebrities whilst barefoot, wearing nothing but a dressing gown.

“It’s okay. I get this a lot,” he said. “I promise you I’m pretty normal. My kids aren’t up yet. I’m going to let them sleep in. And Reubs needs his beauty sleep, otherwise he’s a right grump. He rarely gets up before seven.”

Okay. I wasn’t taking much of that in, but…

“Shit.”

Constance, in her pyjamas. “Double shit.”