Distraction

Chapter Thirty-Seven

What he liked about Libby was... pretty much everything. In the last hour, she'd made him revaluate every other woman he'd fucked. Fucked. Certainly for the last two years that's all he'd done. With Libby it had been a whole different experience. They'd gazed into each other's eyes, for Christ's sake. He'd not done that before. He also quite liked that she wore the heels the whole time. How he'd lasted as long as he did was a complete mystery.

But what he really liked about Libby was they'd spent the last twenty minutes, lying on the rug in front of the fire, talking about anything and everything, but she didn't feel the need to discuss their relationship or what would happen next. And for that he couldn't be more grateful, because no matter how fantastic she was, he had no idea what would happen in the morning.

He ought to be going to bed, to get some sleep since he was on call in the morning, but instead, he lay beside her, scattering kisses up her spine and neck, unable to believe how flawless she was. She wasn't asleep, but she had her eyes closed, her head resting on her folded arms, giving him the opportunity to study every inch of her. He pushed her fringe to the side. It was the little things he liked, how her eyes weren't ostentatiously blue and her lips weren't a bee-stung pout. She was just ordinary, but ordinary worked on her. Christ, she was pretty.

His erratic heart rate was back. When she'd first kissed him in the kitchen, he seriously worried for his health. His heart had beat way faster than could ever be natural. He'd put it down to nerves. He'd not been nervous before shagging a girl since he was about twenty, but then again, she'd been to bed with Rob and Andy. He'd heard some tales about those two. Now, after the event, he had no doubt he knew his way around this girl better than either of them, so why was his heart beating overtime again? Maybe he did have some kind of arrhythmia. He kissed a freckle on her shoulder. No, he was nervous.

Breathing in the scent of roses and sweet peas, he tried to relax. This was Libby, the girl whose garden he'd sat in, talked with, drank with, laughed with. She ridden down a hill for him, she'd been there when he needed her and she'd cooked him a perfect steak. Was that why he was nervous, because she was perfect and maybe she'd find a reason to hate him?

'Is there any part of you that isn't perfect?'

'I have no boobs.'

He rolled her over, stroking one small, but faultless breast. 'Have to disagree. Perfect.'

'And... my feet are awful. Ballet dancers have fugly feet.'

He shifted to sit by her feet, running his hand down her calf, laughing when she tried to pull away. 'Relax.'

'Please don't.'

In the rosy firelight, he could see her blushing, but he didn't let her escape, instead he began massaging his thumbs into her sole. 'So that's why you kept the shoes on.'

'To stop you running away in horror.'

'Idiot.' He lifted her foot, looking her in the eye as he kissed her big toe.

'I hate them. When I was in the Company, it was fine. Everyone had battered feet, but when I left, the world seemed full of girls in flip flops with perfect toes. This is as good as they get after years of remedial pedicures.' Her resistance to his hands lessened and she closed her eyes, sighing. 'God, that's nice. Paolo used to call them hobbit feet.'

'Paolo's an arse you should stay away from. Your feet are you. They're like battle scars. They show your dedication to dancing.' He smiled at her doubtful frown. 'Besides, I'll take your squashed up toes, and raise you...' He lifted his right foot.

'Oh my god, you only have four toes. Where's the little one?'

'Never ride a bike barefoot. A lesson I learned age seven. Sam's fault.'