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I’m not exactly a shy eater, but for some reason I feel self-conscious about eating with him. “I’ll have a latte, please.”
My heart flutters when Leo looks at me, a ghost of a smile lighting his face before he turns to the barista and hands her his card. Taking our drinks, he nods towards the croissants.
“We’ll take one of each.”
Once she hands him the croissants he requested, Leo walks out of the shop, leaving me to follow him.
He has the pastries tucked under his arm as he hands Wayne one of the steaming cups, and then crosses the road. Shivering, I walk quietly next to him with Wayne tailing us.
It’s still nippy this early on in March and the cold is beginning to set into my bones.
“Wait.” Leo stops when we reach the Admiralty Arch holding his coffee and the pastry bag in one hand, he takes off his thick sheepskin jacket and puts it across my shoulders.
“What about you?” Handing him my coffee, I thread my hands through the warm sleeves. “I’m sorry, I should’ve brought my dad’s coat, but…”
He nods, because he knows the state my father’s coat is in. That thought is enough to chill me again and as I burrow my face into the soft collar of his jacket, I relish in his woodsy, earthy scent. Breathing it in deeply as I feel it soak through my clothes into my skin. My pores are opening just to drink it in, and I have to grit my teeth tightly together to repress the sigh that I feel unfurling and moving up every vertebra of my spine until it’s lodged in my throat.
God, he smells so good.
Warm. Homely. Lusty. Rough.
I want more of it. I want to make it my own so that it’ll never wash away.
I want my chest to feel like this all the time—like I’m climbing the highest drop of the world’s tallest rollercoaster—my heart is beating frantically with euphoria and it makes no sense because it’s just a damn jacket.
I’m losing my mind.
Handing me back my coffee, Leo nods towards St. James’ park and I follow down the tarmac and gravel path behind him. Slowing down a tad, I study him from top to bottom. From the way his walk is tired, but at the same time steady and strong. To the way his thick thighs flex with every step. They taper down to strong calves that you expect from carved marble and stone statues. Calves that make Michelangelo’s David and Myron’s Discobolus seem soft.
If Picasso had been a sculptor, I suspect Leo would’ve been one of his creations. He is all sharp angles and long lines. Something that reflects his temperament and personality. A long tether tied to a short, dangerous fuse.
When we reach the mossy pond, he sits on the ground with his legs stretched out so that his pristine Nikes dangle over the edge of the water.
“Sit,” he murmurs, placing the patisserie bag on his legs.
Grabbing my coffee cup from the base, he places it next to his on the ground and I’m entirely unsure how this is going to work. The ground isn’t exactly dry and I’m not wearing underwear because Arabella apparently didn’t think I’d need any. Last thing I want is a soggy arse.
Leo’s eyes don’t budge as I sit next to him, and when I stretch my legs out beside his, he rips the croissant bag open and hands me one oozing with golden, sticky preserve. It smells so good, and although my stomach is twisting and turning with him watching me, I rip a small corner off and eat it.
“Amazing, right?”
It’s probably the best thing I’ve ever had. The pastry is buttery, cool and crisp, but the sweet nectarine filling is still warm and delicious. It makes my mouth water for more.
Taking a swig of my latte, I nod at him, watching the way he licks the tips of his fingers clean of the ruby red jam. Heat builds between my thighs and I have to cross my legs, because God, I swear I can still feel him licking my lips and my throat.
We watch each other eat, quietly, like it’s something entirely new to both of us and not part of basic human nature. And when the silence rampages around my chest like a bull in a china shop, I say the first thing that pops into my head.
“How did you know I wouldn’t want the chocolate one?”
Turning from the pond to look at me again, he swallows even though there’s nothing in his mouth. He glances down at the untouched chocolate pastry in his lap and then back up to me.
“At the birthday party,” he says, “you turned down the chocolate cake and the chocolate dessert. You didn’t touch the truffles that came with the tea and coffee. When Fleur was backing the chocolate shots you were cringing.”
I’m stunned
speechless.
The idea of him watching me, wanting me, makes me squirm and my tummy clench in a way that has me grinding my arse on the ground.
