Things planned? It’s Saturday, so unless it’s work, it can be canceled. And if it is work, I’ll find a way to cancel it myself. I pout, hoping she caves into my cuteness so I don’t have to convince her in another way that spending the day with me is quite compulsory. “What things?” I ask, starting to circle my thumbs under her hold. Another way might be tickling her to death until she agrees. Or I could just fuck her again until she agrees. A persuasion fuck, if you like. It’ll work quite nicely alongside the reminder fuck, and she took to that quite well.

Her grip on my hands increases, her face warning. It’s laughable. Is she trying to regain some control here, now I’m not buried balls deep inside her, blowing her mind? How quickly she forgets. Silly woman. “I need to sort my stuff out,” she tells me, and I frown.

“What stuff?”

“Kate’s place is temporary accommodation,” she says on a little shrug, and my frown deepens. “I’ve been there for four weeks—everything is everywhere. I need to sort it out for when I get my own place.”

Her own place? Maybe that’s not necessary. But . . . “Where were you four weeks ago?”

“With Matt.”

“Who the fuck is Matt?”

“He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

And what the fuck is that inside now? Relief? “Ex?”

“Yes. Ex.”

I’m unable to stop my body from softening. So she has an ex. Matt. Of course she has a fucking ex, you dickhead. Look at her. But how and why did it end? And does it matter now that it means I get her? How old was he? I snarl to myself.

“Jesse, I need to get my car. I can’t leave Kate to drive Margo all the way to Yorkshire. She rattles and shakes all over the place; it won’t be safe.”

Margo? “Don’t worry,” I assure her. Who the fuck is Margo? “I’ll take you to get it in the morning.”

“She’s leaving at eight-ish.”

“Ish,” I mouth, grinning, getting one in return. She likes that word. Translation: Not committed. So long as she doesn’t use it when discussing us.

She shifts my hands up a few inches, away from her tickle spot, and starts feeling around in her hair. I don’t know what the fuck she’s doing, but it’s making her boobs thrust forward, and that’s uncalled for. I scowl, and she smiles, probably wary.

“What?”

She knows what. “You refuse to spend the day with me, and then thrust those fabulous boobs in my face? That’s not playing fair, Ava.” I flick a nipple, my scowl transforming into a smile when it hardens. One fleeting touch. Her body responds in the most pleasing way.