Cut Through The Heart || Chapter 9. Wrennie and the Love Bubble


“So, which fruit is the best then?”

You’re sprawled on him, your arms and legs drooping on the sides of his body, in an uncanny resemblance to a starfish. He’s still breathing heavily, the last round leaving you both completely exhausted. Well, considering it’s round number four, you’re bloody surprised you can still breathe at all.

He barks a chuckle.


“You said that strawberry wasn’t the best of fruit after all. Which one is then?”

You feel his chest and stomach under you starting to shake with laughter. He places his large hot palm on the back of your head.

“Pineapple. The best of fruit is pineapple.”

You both are laughing, and you think you’ve never felt happier in your life.

You try to get up, but he presses another hand on your shoulder blades.

“Stay for a bit longer”.

Well, that’s like a fucking bucket of cold water on your head. What was the other option? Thank you, Miss Leary, for the quadruple shag, and there is the bloody door? You tense and take a long breath in.

“If your don’t mind tolerating it inside of you for a bit more…” You can hear a smile in his voice. “We can go to the shower together in a moment.”

Oh, bollocks, ‘here’ as in on top of him. Phew. Damn, why is it like a minefield with him? Now that you are not shagging like bunnies, you feel like you’re going to do something idiotic and embarrass yourself.

Why wasn’t it like that with Phil? Fuck it, Wren, you just had to go there. It wasn’t like that with Phil, because this time you are supposedly enjoying post-coital bliss with a man pretty much twice your age, and the bloody baggage you both have…

You nuzzle him and lift your eyes. He’s smiling at you. Alright, Wren, we can do it. You sit up managing to keep him inside of you, and he sucks in air. You tilt your head and give him a look over. My oh my, let’s face it, that’s the best thing you’ve seen on your pillow! Well, his pillow, but hot damn! You tread your fingers in the chest hair and claw him a bit. He guffaws.

“Enjoying the view, Miss Leary?” Oh, that’s a much better way to pronounce your name than before. All purry and suggestive.

“I didn’t get much chance to, previously. First I was a bit preoccupied, and then I was mostly staring at the ceiling, and then the headboard.” He snorts and shakes his head.

“You’re massively inappropriate.”

“You are only getting it now?”


In the shower he lathers some soap and attends to every fucking millimeter of your skin. In a few minutes you’re panting, and the two of you end up taking a pause from washing. He is pumping his fingers into you, supporting you with his other hand. You cry out, and sag along the shower wall. He’s kissing you, murmuring into your lips.

The shower stretches for a couple hours, and you can cross out three more fantasies involving him out of the list. Yes, of course you have the bloody List. A blowjob with him standing, ‘fire hydrant’ position, and washing his hair. Surprisingly, the last one is the most satisfying. After taking the proper piss out of his fancy organic shampoo, which leads to a juicy smack on your bum, and crossing out the second out of the mentioned above items from the ‘Wren’s most frequent fantasies involving a shower and Dr. Sexy’ list, you finally get to experience the orgasmic – word of the day it seems – luxurious mane of Dr John Thorington. He’s kneeling in front of you – how else would you reach? And the ebony and silver is running through your fingers. You are gently detangling it, and he’s placing soft kisses on whatever part of you he can reach. Since his eyes are closed, the results are switching between steamy and ridiculous. You wash off the luscious foam from his hair, and he lifts his face to you, his eyes still closed. And at that moment you realize that if you don’t do something drastic to stop yourself, you will say the Words.

You jolt away and slip on the soap on the floor. His eyes fly open from your yelp, and he catches you and presses to himself.


“Yes, yes, I’m totally fine.” You’re hyperventilating. “Totally. Better than ever. Tip-top. Just sort of… I don’t know… Slipped?” He’s looking at you puzzled. Alright, better if he thinks you’re a barmpot than you saying that you… No, no, no, retreat, retreat!

You shove the shampoo the bottle into his hands.

“Care to return the favour?”

“God, yes.”


You make love twice in the morning again. Sex, you are having sex, Wren. Bloody hell, what is wrong with you? Sober up! It’s sex! Shag, hanky-panky, rogering… Call it any other way, but making bloody love!

Nothing works. You end up biting your lip, pillow, and eventually your finger not to say it. The goddamn words are bursting out of you. When he sucks in your nipple, when his fingers slide into you, when he’s thrusting into you, or kissing your buttocks.

Alright, the fault for the morning activities is totally on you. You weren’t even fully awake yet, and already your fingers were around his cock. Then when he places you on top of him and you sink on him, you go as far as to start moaning, “Oh, John, I…” but manage to suppress the treacherous Forbidden Sentence.

After he comes back from the washroom after discarding yet another of Thea’s gifts from the goodie bag, you scurry from the bed and pass him.

“Do you mind if I take the shower on my own this time? I just don’t think I will have anything done if… you know…” He smirks and stretches on the bed.

“It’s all yours.” A wide wave of his long-fingered hand – oh, god, his hands! – follows. You’re mincing into the washroom and hear behind you, “Don’t enjoy it too much. I might get jealous and decide you should share.”

Oh my…


You’re pressing your forehead to the tile wall and try to rein your nerves. Alright, Wren, it’s as simple as this. There’s absolutely no reason to panic. You are obviously in love with him. We knew it long time ago! No argument! And we also know that as special as it seems to be, he’s not there yet. Maybe he can never even get there. But at this stage, the last thing you need to do is to jump at him with proclamations of… your feelings. Because he will run. Or kick you out. Or become his old self and do something horrible to make you leave on your own.

You step out of the shower and look in the mirror.

You look… radiant. Rosy cheeks, shining eyes – given there’s purple lovebite on your collar bone – all together you look better than ever.

And you will do anything and everything to preserve this in your life. Kill, wound, or maim included. And no one will take it away. Even Dr. Dark and Sexy himself.

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