TheSmallPrint (8 page)

Chapter Six

Turner drove into the village and was roaring out the other side when he slammed his foot on the brake. What the hell was he doing? Milford Hall was
his
house. He shouldn’t be the one leaving. Who knew what the hell the idiot would do in his absence.

Plus there was the distinct risk that if he drove too far, he wouldn’t find his way back. Not with the bloody satellite navigation still trying to take him to his previous house.

Turner needed to turn around. He swallowed hard. How was it that with a name like his, he hated going back, looking back, retracing his steps, thinking what he might have done rather than what he
had
done. No use wishing things were different. His life had taken a different path twenty years ago and he had to live the one he had now.

Driving on until he found a slightly wider section of road, Turner did a twenty-five-point maneuver, barely managed to avoid reversing into a water-filled ditch and returned to the village. He pulled up outside the estate agents. Closed, but printing on the window said they were open late the following day. He’d be paying them a visit to complain about a member of their staff.

Thoughts concerning conflict of interest and lack of professionalism kept him seething until he pulled up outside Milford Hall, and then Turner sagged. Avoidance tactics hadn’t worked. Guilt swirled in his head. He’d done something despicable, fucked Matty in an uncouth way, and somehow he had to make it right without letting her think she could now stay.

Turner pushed open the door and a cog clicked in his head as he recalled an earlier suspicion. Had she set him up? The short skirt. The fall—oh yes, he’d tripped on the ladder, but had she taken advantage of that, engineered the frantic fuck? It wasn’t inconceivable that she’d think having sex with him would soften him up. No matter what else he was, Turner was male. He harrumphed. Of course, she didn’t
know
him. Sex was not a way to his heart—Turner got out of the car and locked it—though he wouldn’t mind letting her try again. His jaw twitched. He hadn’t fooled one cell in his body.

He wanted her. He just didn’t want her in his house—for her sake and his.

Turner neither heard nor saw her on his way to the library, but he knew she was still there. He could smell flowers. If he didn’t find the contract in the next couple of hours, he’d text George. He’d also ask for the name of the lawyers, though Turner recognized the slim chance of his desert-exploring assistant being within the range of a mobile phone transmitter.

Turner blinked when he walked into the library. The books no longer see-sawed along the shelves—they’d been rearranged alphabetically. And by genre. He sighed and then tightened his mouth. He’d told her to leave them alone. The
Search for Order
box was now on the bottom shelf, and he couldn’t resist checking the contents were still there. Maybe leaving them in plain sight was a better idea than hiding them. A sort of double bluff.
Christ.
The sooner Gabriel came, the better. Let him find the damn things, take them and leave.

Turner’s gaze fell onto his desk and he slid the wedge of papers out from under the books.

The contract.

Why did he have a feeling he wasn’t going to like what he saw?

Turner sat down and read the page she’d left on top.

Twice.

He thought about going for a third time and instead flicked through the rest of the document. No other surprises, but those special conditions were alarming enough. Why the fuck had he signed it? Why had George let him? Turner couldn’t believe this would stand up in a court of law. Easements and covenants were one thing, but these three conditions were ridiculous. He had no interest in being a committee member of some happy little village group. He didn’t want them traipsing all over his property, wrecking the grounds. And how in hell was he expected to share his house with Miss Tadpole?

A visit to the estate agent would be the start of his campaign to get rid of her. They’d have details of his lawyers. No need to get frustrated when he failed to contact George. Turner could sort this out himself. He wasn’t entirely useless.

Now he had a reason to seek out Matty. He’d thank her for rearranging his books, thank her for finding the contract, thank her for a fabulous— Maybe not that. As Turner strode upstairs, he found himself feeling unaccountably agitated. Through anger, anxiety or anticipation? His cock thickened in response and he bit back a groan.

Turner gave a sharp rap on the attic door and it swung open. Matty knelt on the floor, surrounded by teetering piles of books. Her face brightened when she saw him, but as he stared, her smile slipped away. His jaw twitched. He didn’t like it that he stopped her smiling.

“Come in,” she said.

He did
not
need an invitation to step into his own attic. Turner walked toward her.

“I decided to sort my books too.” She slotted a pile of dusty tomes onto the end of a shelf.

“Thank you for doing mine and for finding the contract.”

Matty jumped to her feet. “You read it? You saw the special conditions? Milford has a huge Winterval—that’s a big winter carnival in case you were wondering. People come from miles around. It dates back for centuries—well, longer than that. Millennia. A king came here once for a visit. Not sure which one. There’s competitions for all sorts of things and fireworks and rides and lovely…food.” Her face fell again.

Turner frowned. What was wrong with Miss Chatterbox now? She’d said something that had sparked a thought but he’d been distracted when her smile slipped. Turner swallowed hard. He didn’t have to tell her right this minute that he planned to find a way to amend the contract. He didn’t have to tell her until he’d actually done it. No point upsetting her too soon, not when it was better they remain on friendly terms. His cock nodded in agreement.

With a mouth as dry as George’s Chilean desert, Turner wasn’t entirely sure that he could speak to tell her anything. She stood in front of him in that tiny skirt and all he could think about was whether she’d put on more underwear and how easily he could check.

“About what happened earlier.” Matty twisted her fingers together.

Turner didn’t move. He deserved everything she threw at him, even if it was sharp, made of wood and it hurt.

She looked straight at him and smiled. “It was lovely.”

Oh fuck.
Three words to disarm him where three men would have failed. Her gaze dropped to below his waist and Turner knew exactly what she was looking at. His preening cock had grown another inch at the word “lovely”. As it swelled, hardened and straightened in his pants, it crossed Turner’s mind that his dick had a brain and agenda of its own.

“It doesn’t have to
mean
something,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s just nice to touch and be touched. Isn’t it? It makes you feel alive.”

Oh God.

She took a step closer. “Was it all right for you? Was there something I should have done differently?”

Turner opened his mouth, but no words emerged. When she reached out and laid her hand on his groin, he braced himself for spontaneous combustion.

Matty wondered if her hand had a mind of its own because she didn’t know what the hell it was doing. Since when did she put her palm on a guy’s crotch? Only the fact Turner hadn’t growled kept her fingers where they were. She looked straight at him to find his dark eyes glittering and no sign of disgust on his face, only rampant hunger. He
was
attracted to her—he just didn’t want to admit it. All she had to do was make him see that he needed her as much as she needed him.

Easy way to do that. Something that would make them both happy. Matty dropped to her knees and unfastened the button at his waist. She pulled down the zipper and then tugged his pants to his ankles. His cock tented his shorts, a little wet circle on the blue cotton and Matty licked her lips. He might not say much, but his body said plenty. Turner’s groan dragged her gaze to his face and she watched his fingers push open the buttons of his shirt and yank it from his arms. He toed off his shoes—no socks—and kicked away his pants.
Oh God, what a body.
Matty was almost rendered speechless, but not quite.

“Wow, you look like a cowboy.”

Damn, speechless would have been better.

His eyes widened. Matty reached behind to grab a book from the floor that she’d left out to read. “Look.” The cover was of a bare-chested guy holding a Stetson above his head, pants riding low on narrow hips. Like the cowboy, Turner’s abs were sharply defined, his pecs not too large, not too small. There was no hair on his chest but a slight dark line trailed down from his bellybutton—an arrow pointing the way. Matty already knew he had no pubic hair. Just like her. For some reason hers hadn’t grown after the last time she’d shaved. Nor the hairs on her legs or under her arms. One spark of light in the blackness that was her bloody horrible life.

“I take it that’s a compliment?” Turner asked in a gruff voice.

“What?” Matty had forgotten what she’d said.

“That I resemble a cowboy.”

She nodded so hard, she made her head hurt. The book fell from her fingers. She took a deep breath, grasped the waistband of his shorts and tugged down the last item of his clothing.

Oh God, I had all that inside me?
How did it fit?
But Turner’s cock fit his body. Long, hard and proud, the crest glistening with pre-cum, it reared straight up, and Matty forgot all thoughts about doing this to persuade him, she was doing this for her. If he got something out of it, that was good too. She had to force herself not to pounce on him as if he were the last bar of chocolate in the world.

Matty rubbed her cheek against his cock, loving the feel of satiny skin stretched over a steel-hard shaft. When she heard him groan, muscles tingled then pulsed in her core and a gush of warmth wet her folds. Matty slid her hands over his firm thighs and spread her fingers over his buttocks as she slowly ran her tongue up his cock to the blood-dark crest.

His legs were like stone pillars, every muscle locked tight. A pearly bead of pre-cum gathered at his cock head, grew too large to keep its shape and started to slide. Matty caught it with her tongue and slurped it into her mouth.
Oh sweet
. She curled her tongue over her lips.

“Oh God,” Turner grunted.

Touch me.
She beamed the thought to him but his hands remained by his sides, fists locked tight.

While she nuzzled his cock with her nose and lips, Matty stroked the back of his thighs, fluttering her fingers up to run them under the curves at the base of his butt, before sweeping them down to the back of his knees. When his legs trembled, she smiled. With the next journey north, she let one hand settle around the base of his cock and used the other to cup his swollen balls. Matty was barely able to wrap her fingers around him.

Touch me. Please.

But he didn’t. Matty opened her mouth and drew the fat head of his shaft between her lips. Turner’s thighs gave a violent quiver and he moaned. She used her shielded teeth to pull his foreskin back over the head before she sucked hard. Turner gasped as she pressed her mouth around him.

“That feels— Oh God.”

Matty licked down his length, tracing the swollen veins to his heavy sac. She’d found something she loved doing, and the fact he hadn’t yanked her away and snarled meant he loved it too—didn’t it?

Turner’s breathy groans made her chest tighten and orgasm simmered inside her. His hand moved over hers where she cupped his balls and he wrapped her fingers more firmly around the base of his cock.

“Hold me tight, right there,” he whispered.

Matty squeezed her fist around him while she skimmed her lips up and down his shaft, alternately licking, sucking and blowing. Only when she ran her tongue along the curved ridge under the crown did Turner’s hands do what she wanted. Fingers stroked and then threaded her hair, and a palm settled over the back of her head. Matty’s heart swelled with hope, and her clit hardened and throbbed.

She wrapped her hands around his cock, and while pressing down on his balls with her fist, she pulled the other hand up, folded her mouth around him and then dragged her hand down again.

“Fuck,” Turner gasped.

Matty fluttered the tip of her tongue over the slit on his cock head and dipped inside to steal another drop of pre-cum. His fingers dug deeper into her hair. Turner tasted good and felt good. The musky scent of him inflamed her senses and excited every cell. The tops of her thighs were awash with her cream and her nipples had beaded to rub on her sweater. Matty’s chest had tightened so much it hurt when she breathed.

She opened her mouth wider to envelop more of him, let him surge deeper and contracted the muscles of her throat around his cock before she pulled back. He was hot and sweet, silky and hard, all at the same time. Matty bobbed her head over his crest, concentrating on the top couple of inches, pulling tighter, faster and harder while he gasped louder and louder.

His fingers tugged at her hair and his hips bucked, pushing his cock deeper.
He wants me to take more?
Matty wasn’t sure she could cope with much more of him in her mouth. The last thing she wanted to do was gag and ruin the moment, but she took her hands off his cock, wrapped them around his butt and trusted Turner to take charge.