Cut Through The Heart || Chapter 10. Wrennie’s Weak Spot


You wrap your hair in a towel and yell through the door, “I need a floss. Do you mind if I rummage through your things?”

“Sure! And the breakfast is here by the way.”

Hm, that’s nice. Courteously ordering breakfast, are we? You’re actually starving.

You look at the counter and snort. That’s a beauty case. Seriously, it’s all black and manly, but it is a bloody beauty case. You giggle and open it. The amount of bottles and tubes is bordering ridiculous, but it’s not quite there. Alright, aftershave, matching the fragrance, hand cream – makes sense – and skin stuff, again all manly and matching, alright, hm, what’s that?

The understanding dawns, and you feel dizzy. Sensitive Eyes Daily Cleaner. Oh my fucking God, he wears contact lenses! That explains it. When you came back from your room last night, something seemed different about his eyes. More vulnerable, more open… He is fucking short-sighted. Which can mean only one thing. Either everything is blurry for him right now, or…

You tumble out of the bathroom and… Oh. My. Fucking. God! You freeze before the most magical spectacle in your life. Dr. John Crispin Thorington is sitting at the table, in the hotel bathrobe, reading newspaper. With a pair of brain specs on his nose.

He lifts his eyes at you and smiles. You are a statue.

“I ordered coffee too. Didn’t know what you drink in the morning.”

You can’t move a muscle.


You stalk towards him and climb on his lap. You are straddling him and pull the towel off your head.


You attack him with a bruising kiss, and he drops the newspaper. His arms wrap around you, and you grind your pelvis into him demandingly. He groans and pulls you closer. You’re pulling the belt of your own robe, your second hand decisively shoved into his. He groans louder and lifts his hand to take the glasses off.

“Don’t,” you are growling. Menacingly. He hikes up his brows and chuckles.

“Oh, I see how it is…” His smile is very, very smug.

“Shut up and shag me.”

“With pleasure.”

That’s a hell of a feral smirk you get in return.


You come back to reality staring at the ceiling. Damn, the rug burns are going to be brutal.

“Now you need another shower…” His tone is lazy, he is drawing circles on your hip with the tips of his fingers.

“Breakfast first.” You’re very raspy from all the loud screaming in ecstasy.

You two get up, both groaning, muscles and joints protesting from yesterday’s activities, especially in the shower, and today’s, especially this rough tumble on the hard floor. He picks up the glasses from the floor. When did they fall off? He looks at them.

“Is it safe to put them on again?” His eyes are laughing.

“Definitely. There is no energy left in me for anything.”

He puts them on. Bugger.

“Maybe you should still stay away from them for a while,” you mumble, and he settles them on top of his head, smiling.


You’re finally having breakfast, and you’re rubbing your foot up and down his leg. He is smirking into his cup.

“Do you have any meeting in the Riverdell today?”

Yuck, reality.

“I have a luncheon with the interns, and then an actual meeting with Elwig at three.”

“I’m his three forty five. So you know and don’t think that I’m stalking you.”

“Ha-ha,” you deadpan. And then you remember, “Oh, right, there is the Riverdell High Tea thing. What’s that all about?” He scoffs.

“It’s a Riverdell tradition.” He makes an irritated face. “Elwig introduced it when he took over the throne, so to speak. They treat their guests to traditional high tea with scones and mince pies. I’m invited as well.”

Minefield alert, minefield alert! You quickly lift your cup to your lips. He’s putting butter on his toast. Meticulously, in perfect precise movements of a knife. You are momentarily distracted by the sexiness of his fingers wielding any sort of blade, but then shake yourself out of daft fawning and back to reality. Should you maybe just ask? Something like ‘so, John, how are we playing it? Are we pretending to be just colleagues and politely sip our tea as if we didn’t just scream in rapture right over there on the carpet?’ He bites into his toast and looks at you blissfully unaware of the battle going on in your head.

And then he chews and asks, “Are you panicking inside about how we should behave around each other in public now?” Bugger, maybe not that unaware.

“Yes?” Oh, that’s bloody embarrassing.

“I’ll go with whatever you choose. You mannerly calling me Dr. Thorington after what we spent hours doing in here, there and there…” He points with his long finger, and you blush furiously. “Might actually be very sexy.” He goes back to eating his toast. Tosser.

What are you suppose to do? Pretend nothing happened? Introduce him as your boyfriend and hold hands? That is the most ridiculous picture you have ever had in your head. Oh… So many things are so wrong with you two being together and going public, and only one thing is right. That thing is how it actually feels when it is just the two of you. You drop your head on the table and bang it slightly. He’s chewing his toast and looks at you with pity.

“See, Wren, I do not have any reputation to lose. Telling the world that I am sleeping with a woman who is significantly younger than I am, and happens to be a researcher in a project that I lead, won’t do much damage to people’s existing perception of me as a bounder and lecher. You, on the other hand…” He’s giving you a pointed look. “So I can understand if you feel apprehensive to disclose it to the half of medical community over scones.”

Right… You straighten up in your chair and look him directly in the eyes. You have known him for a while and also had sex with him for the last ten hours, does he really think you haven’t learnt any of his tells? This small tense smile in the corners of his lips, the distant eyes, immobile shoulders…

“If this is your elaborate way of manipulating me into yelling that I am not ashamed of our liaison and want to tell the whole wide world about it, then it’s not working.” You pick up your cup and a toast and now it’s your turn to chew nonchalantly. He gives you a strange look. “Because I am not ashamed of it, but also can’t say that I feel comfortable parading it in front of others. For various reasons.”

He shifts in his chair uncomfortably. “Which are?..” Is that a tinge of insecurity you denote?

“The ones you already mentioned, but also whatever you say, won’t you feel trapped if our relationships become public knowledge?”


Wow, that is an unexpectedly assured answer.

“I really do not care of what public thinks about my relationships, and these relationships in particular,” he continues, and then slowly get up and comes up to you. He kneels in front of you, and you tingle from head to toe.

His face is level to your tits, and he looks up at you. “Maybe I want every tosser at that high tea to know that you will be spending all your nights in my bed…” His eyes are dark. “Or on any other flat surface in my room for that matter. Table and window sill included.”

Holy mother of monkey…

You give it a thought. That’s not a declaration of feelings per se, more of a property claim, but you’ll take it for now. You wrap your arms around his neck and smile to him.

“I will make sure to make it abundantly clear to any tosser going by.”

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