Page 52 of Cross My Heart
“Where would the fun be in that?” I say instead. All evening, I’ve been getting the same tired jokes about growing up and settling down, and I’ve just about hit my limit. “Besides, Cyrus would never forgive me, I’m keeping the Lancaster gossip columnists in business, after all.”
“Oh, you devil you!” The crowd all chortle, and I grit my teeth. Usually, I can laugh it off, but for some reason, it’s like a weight is pressing down on me this evening: the expectations, the way they all look at me.
I can tell, they’re comparing me to Edward. The brother who was supposed to be the heir.
And I’ll never live up to him. Not even if I tried.
My temper burns, hotter. Then I feel Tessa’s arm slip through mine.
“I nearly forgot,” she says suddenly. “Leonora Fortesque-Smith was just dying to chat before she had to fly back to Monte Carlo.”
What? I stare at Tessa, confused, before I catch the glint of mischief in her eyes. “Right,” I say slowly, playing along. “Dear Leonora. And Freddie.”
“No, Freddie passed in that polo accident, remember?” Tessa adds, clearly trying not to laugh. “She’s with Frederico now, the racing car heir. I guess it makes it easier,” she adds to the other guests, “Less likely to blurt the wrong name at a sticky moment. Anyway, lovely meeting you all!”
We walk fast away from the group and make it around the corner and out of earshot before Tessa breaks out laughing. "Monte Carlo?” I ask, watching her body shake with mirth.
“Where else is she going to meet the racing driver?” she replies, through giggles.
“The Fortesque-Smiths are going to be so confused, they have a new member,” I remark, still wound too tight.
Tessa blinks. “Wait, that’s a real name?”
“Unfortunately. They’re probably around here somewhere.”
Chatting to my parents about what a disappointment I am.
“Sorry, that was rude, cutting out like that” Tessa adds, looking bashful. “But you looked like you’d just about had it with the small-talk.”
“You were right.” I say, moving closer. “I owe you one.”
I put her back against the wall, and claim her lips in a slow, deep kiss.
Damn. This is what I’ve been needing, the intoxication only she can provide. Tessa makes a breathy moan, pressing closer so her body is hot against mine, and just like that, all the stifling social bullshit seems to melt away under the surge of heat between us, and her wet, pliant mouth, already parting to invite my tongue deeper.
“Saint…” she gasps, as I grow hard as a rock against her hip. I nip her lower lip, and thrust my tongue deep again, feeling her whole body shudder in anticipation, thighs parting to accommodate me between them.
All evening, I’ve been wanting her, searching her out in the crowd. Burning with impatience for the moment when I can put my hands on her again. Touch her. Taste her.
Claim her.
When I draw back, she’s pink-cheeked and breathless—but it’s not enough. I remember the way she looked right after she came for me in my library: salty on my fingertips, her body arching and wild.
I want to see her shake like that again.
I need it, before I go out of my goddamn mind.
Yeah, there’s no way I’m making it back to Oxford before I make this woman come.
“Wait here,” I instruct her, looking around. It’s getting dark out now, and the party is turning raucous, with the music playing louder, and everyone halfway to drunk, or more. I’ve done my dutiful son routine. Nobody will notice if we slip away. “I’ll be right back.”
I leave Tessa and head inside, cutting through the house. I know it well, so it’s easy to navigate to the huge mudroom out back, and retrieve a woolen picnic blanket. Then I detour past the catering set-up, and nab a bottle of champagne, before heading back to meet Tessa.
“I told you, I can’t talk here!”
A familiar voice makes me pause in the hallway. It’s my father, sounding stressed and urgent. I move closer to an open door, and glance inside. He there, half-hidden in the shadows with a brunette woman I don’t recognize. They’re talking in low voices, and it’s clear from the body language that this is a private conversation.
“You’re ignoring my calls,” the woman hisses furiously. She has a French accent, wearing a designer pantsuit and a gold rope necklace; her hair cut in a sharp bob. “Where else are we supposed to talk?”