Page 109 of Tears of Glass

I kiss him hard, giving him everything. My hands slide through his hair, along the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about next weekend,” I say eventually.

“It’s okay.” His forehead rests against mine. “I had plans but they can keep.”

“What sort of plans?” Well now I’m doubly gutted about dinner at Bowsley.

He smiles and that little dimple I love flashes. “It’s okay, it can wait.”

“No. Come on, share the plans.”

He sighs. “You’ll have to get off my lap.”

I shake my head, grinning, circling my hips a little against his erection firmly wedged between my legs. “Deal breaker. I don’t want to move.”

He sighs, but his smile says everything. “So difficult, Miss Hitchin.”

“Always.”

He holds onto me tight and lifts us from the floor and I giggle, my arms tight around his neck as he walks us to the dining room table. “Dinner.” I wiggle my eyebrows.

“Insatiable.”

“Only with you.”

My lips find his again, pressing against his warm mouth, my tongue sliding in; swiping and dancing.

“How are we ever supposed to get anything done?” He breaks the kiss. “If you keep kissing me every thirty seconds.”

“You don’t like my kisses?” I raise an eyebrow.

“I don’t like them, I love them.” Still holding me, he leans towards the jacket he abandoned hours before and pulls an envelope from the inside pocket. Across the front in fountain pen ink is Faith Hitchin. He hands me the envelope, his eyes on my face.

“What’s this?” I take the envelope and my heartbeat for some inexplicable reason begins to race.

“I wanted to give it to you next weekend. But unsurprisingly, my mother has ruined that.” He shrugs. “Now will do.”

He walks us back for the sofa and sits with me still on his lap.

“Aren’t I supposed to give you a present if it’s your birthday?”

He shrugs but his smile is lethal. “I accept blow jobs on all occasions.”

Shaking my head, I slide my finger along the edge of the envelope ripping it open.

He tuts and shakes his head. “Now, the Fairclough’s only ever open an envelope with a letter knife.” His voice is low, rumbling, and it does dangerous things to the area between my legs.

“The things the other half worry about.”

He nods at the envelope. “Come along, Hitchin, it’s late. Some of us have to work tomorrow.”

“It’s Saturday.” I stare into his eyes.

“I know. I know.” His forehead presses against mine. “Come on, Faith. The envelope, please.”

I pull out the slip of paper inside and unfold it staring at the words that make no sense, mainly because it’s all in French. The only words that stand out are Faith and Hitchin.

“What is this?” I raise my gaze from the letter and find him watching me closely.

“It’s yours.”