Chapter 11: Worship
The kiss was not a question. It was an answer. To everything. The weeks of tentative glances, the shared laughter in the coffee shop, the charged conversation over tapas—it all coalesced into the firm, sure pressure of his mouth on hers. It was warm, and tasted of the almond cake and the crisp ghost of wine. He kissed her slowly, with a focused intensity that made the room tilt. One hand stayed cradling her jaw, the other settled on her waist, thumb pressing just above her hip bone.
She melted into it, her hands coming up to fist in the soft wool of his jumper. The shyness that usually coiled in her stomach was gone, incinerated by a wave of pure, startling want. She made a small sound against his lips, and he swallowed it, his kiss deepening, turning hungrier.
When he finally broke away, they were both breathing raggedly. He rested his forehead against hers again, his eyes closed. “Okay,” he breathed, more to himself than to her. “Okay.”
Then he kissed her again, quicker this time, a soft press of reassurance before he straightened up. The look he gave her was so openly full of want it was almost frightening. But beneath it, she saw the same careful control, the same deliberation he applied to everything. He wasn’t going to rush. Even now.
“Come here,” he said, his voice rough. He didn’t lead her; he simply bent, slid one arm behind her knees and the other around her back, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing.
Roz gasped, her arms looping instinctively around his neck. “Ally—”
“I’ve got you.” He said it into her hair, his breath warm. He carried her across the open space, past the drafting table and the books, toward a simple wooden door set into the far wall. It was ajar.
His bedroom was not the shrine to sports she might have expected from the coffee shop stories. It was almost austere. A large, low bed with plain linen sheets. A wardrobe. A single chair by the window, which did indeed overlook the dark, silent training grounds, the distant coffee shop just a shadow. There were no trophies on display. The only personal touch was a framed, faded Ordnance Survey map on the wall above the bed.
He laid her down in the center of the bed with a gentleness that belied his strength. The sheets were cool. He stood beside the bed, looking down at her, his chest rising and falling. The amber light from the main room spilled in, cutting him into a silhouette of broad shoulders and tapered waist.
“You’re sure?” The question was a gravelly scrape.
In answer, she reached for him. It was all the confirmation he needed.
He joined her, the mattress dipping under his weight, and the world narrowed to the space where their bodies met. He kissed her again, and again, each one slower, deeper, more consuming than the last. His hands began to move, not with the frantic urgency she’d feared, but with a deliberate, worshipful curiosity. He traced the line of her collarbone with his thumb, pushed the strap of her dress from her shoulder, following the path with his mouth. The brush of his lips against her skin was electrifying.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured into the hollow of her shoulder. The words weren’t a line. They were a stunned realization. “Roz. Christ.”
Her own hands were learning him. The impossible hardness of his bicep under her palm, the fascinating contrast of soft cashmere and the solid muscle beneath. She tugged at his jumper. “This… is in the way.”
He let out a soft laugh, a puff of air against her skin. “Right. Sorry.” He sat back on his heels and pulled the jumper over his head in one swift motion, tossing it to the floor.
The sight of him stole the air from her lungs. He was all carved angles and powerful lines, the definition of his abdomen sharp even in the low light. A few pale scars mapped his ribs, a darker, fresher bruise bloomed on one shoulder. This was his other language, the physical text of his life. She sat up, drawn to it, and before she could think, she pressed her lips to the centre of the bruise.
He went very still. A sharp intake of breath. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair.
She leaned back, meeting his gaze. “Does that hurt?”
“No.” His voice was wrecked. “Do it again.”
She did, kissing along the edge of the discoloured skin, then across his collarbone, down his sternum. His skin was hot, salt-tinged. She felt the frantic drum of his heart under her lips. His control was unravelling, thread by thread.
His hands found the zip at the back of her dress. He pulled it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room. He helped her out of it, his eyes never leaving hers. When she was left in just her underwear, she felt a flicker of self-consciousness, a instinct to cover herself. But the way he looked at her—like he’d discovered something priceless and fragile—chased it away.
“My turn,” he whispered, and hooked a finger under the strap of her bra, sliding it down. He bent and replaced the lace with his mouth, and her back arched off the bed, a broken sound escaping her. His hands, those big, careful hands, learned her. He touched her like she was his new subject, his new study, mapping every curve and plane with a reverence that left her trembling.
When there was nothing left between them, he paused, bracing himself above her. The streetlight from outside caught the sweat at his temple, the desperate set of his jaw. “Roz. Look at me.”
She opened her eyes. His face was a mask of strained pleasure, his pupils blown wide.
“This might be…” He swallowed, searching for the words. “I might not be… gentle. I’ve wanted this for so long.”
She cupped his face, her thumb smoothing over the scar on his brow. “Don’t be gentle,” she whispered. “Be real.”
A groan was torn from him. He buried his face in her neck. “Fuck.”
And then he was moving, joining them together in one slow, devastating stroke. She cried out, her nails digging into the rigid muscles of his back. He stilled, completely, letting her adjust, his whole body trembling with the effort. “Alright?” he gasped.
She nodded, words beyond her. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, deeper. It was an answer.
That broke the last of his restraint.
What followed was not gentle. It was primal, and raw, and breathtakingly honest. It was the release of all the weeks of pent-up tension, the spoken and unspoken. He moved with a powerful, driving rhythm that spoke of athleticism, but his touch on her skin, in her hair, against her face, was infinitely tender. He whispered her name, and “sweetheart,” and “baby,” the endearments falling from his lips like prayers between ragged breaths.
She clung to him, meeting him thrust for thrust, lost in the sensation of being utterly claimed, yet somehow more herself than ever. The world dissolved into a symphony of feeling: the slide of skin on skin, the creak of the bed, his guttural moans in her ear, the coiling, tightening heat in her own core.
It crested suddenly, violently. She shattered first, a silent scream against his shoulder as waves of pleasure tore through her. He followed moments after, her name a broken shout into the quiet room, his body locking, then collapsing onto her, a dead weight of spent passion.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their struggling lungs, the slowing hammer of their hearts. The cool air raised goosebumps on their sweat-slicked skin.
Slowly, carefully, he rolled to the side, taking her with him, tucking her against him so her head rested on his chest. His arm was a heavy, secure band around her back. He pressed a kiss to her damp hair.
Neither spoke. The silence was full, comfortable. Her fingers traced idle patterns through the fine hair on his chest. Outside, a distant siren wailed, then faded.
It was Roz who broke the quiet, her voice small and hoarse. “So. Not a head-butt.”
His chest shook with silent laughter. “No. Not a head-butt.” He squeezed her. “You okay?”
“Mmm.” She was more than okay. She was unmoored, in the best possible way. “That was… conclusive.”
He laughed again, the sound rich and warm. “A definitive result. Ham would be proud.” He grew quiet for a moment. “It was more than that for me.”
“For me, too.”
They lapsed back into silence. She listened to his heartbeat steady into a slow, strong rhythm. Her eyes grew heavy, the exhaustion of the night, the wine, the emotional and physical expenditure, pulling at her.
Just as she was drifting off, his voice rumbled beneath her ear, soft and serious.
“My flight to Cardiff is at six a.m. on the Friday of your show.”
She went still. The real world, with its schedules and obligations, seeped back into the room.
“I’ll be on a team bus, then in a hotel room, then on a pitch,” he continued, his fingers tracing her spine. “But on Sunday, the moment I’m cleared, I’ll be on a plane back. I will be at that gallery. I will see your door in the rain.”
She lifted her head to look at him. In the near-dark, his features were soft, his expression earnest. He was drawing his blueprint again, right there in the aftermath. Setting the next stones.
“What if you lose?” she asked quietly.
A faint smile touched his lips. “Then I’ll be in a worse mood, and I’ll probably have a shiner. But I’ll still be on the plane.” He brushed her hair back. “This is the messy part, Roz. The part that isn’t just coffee and tapas. There will be times I’m not here. Times I’m exhausted, or pissed off, or hurt.”
She thought of her painting, of the red line that was a decision, a mistake, a door. She thought of the threshold she’d just crossed with him, willingly.
“I’m not afraid of messy,” she said, and settled her head back on his chest, listening to the promise in his heartbeat.
The silence after her words was different. It hummed with a new understanding, a contract signed in skin and breath. His hand, resting on the small of her back, began a slow, absent stroke. She could feel the calluses on his palm catching against her skin, each one a tiny story of grit and graft.
“Good,” he finally said, the word a rumble in his chest. “Because my life is basically a study in controlled chaos. You’ve seen the preseason schedule pinned to my fridge.”
“The multicoloured nightmare? I thought it was one of my more abstract class projects.”
He snorted, his body shaking beneath hers. “It’s a logistical horror show. But it’s mine.” He shifted, turning onto his side to face her. The sheets whispered with the movement. In the deep grey light, his features were softened, his eyes dark pools. “And I want you in it. The chaotic bits, the quiet bits. All of it.”
He reached out and traced the line of her eyebrow, then her cheekbone, with a fingertip. His touch was feather-light, a contrast to the demanding weight of him just minutes before. “You are,” he began, then stopped, his gaze searching her face as if committing it to memory. He leaned in, his lips brushing her temple as he whispered, “The most beautiful woman.”
The words weren’t loud, but they hit her with the force of a shout. They curled, warm and solid, in the hollow of her throat. She didn’t know how to hold them. So she pressed closer, nuzzling into the hard plane of his chest, feeling the undeniable strength and solidity of him. He was real. This was real.
“My girl,” he murmured into her hair, his arms tightening around her.
She let out a shaky breath she hadn’t known she was holding. It felt like surrender, and like victory.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he said, his voice low and sure. “I’ll protect you. I’m strong.”
It was an old promise, the kind from storybooks, but on his lips it felt practical. A statement of fact. He was strong. He could, and would, shoulder things. The thought unlocked a deep, forgotten chamber of feeling inside her—a relief so profound it was almost dizzying. She didn’t answer with words. She simply kissed the skin over his heart, a silent seal.
Dawn came as a gradual lightening of the grey. The rain had started again, a soft patter against the window. Roz woke to the smell of him—clean sweat, cotton, something uniquely male and Alistair—and the feel of his leg thrown heavily over hers. He was still deeply asleep, his breathing even. She studied him. The scar on his brow. The dark fan of his lashes. The relaxed, almost boyish set of his mouth.
This was the quiet bit.
Carefully, she extricated herself. The wooden floor was cool under her bare feet. She found her dress in a pool by the bed and slipped it on, then padded out to the main room. Her painting, Door in the Rain, leaned against the wall where he’d placed it. It looked different here, in the flat light of morning, in his space. It looked like it belonged.
She heard a rustle from the bedroom. A low, sleepy groan. “Roz?”
“In here.”
He appeared in the doorway, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants low on his hips, his hair comically mussed. He blinked at her, his eyes still soft with sleep. “You’re dressed.”
“It’s morning.”
“It’s a crime.” He shuffled over, wrapping his arms around her from behind and burying his face in her neck. “Come back to bed. It’s raining. Perfect duvet weather.”
She leaned back into him, smiling. “You have a conditioning session at eight. Ham would have my head.”
He groaned again, this time with genuine agony. “Ham is a tyrannical little gremlin. Don’t listen to him.” His hands slid down her arms. “What are you looking at?”
“My door.”
He was quiet for a moment, his chin resting on her shoulder as he looked at the painting with her. “It’s even better in the daylight,” he said. “The red… it’s not a mistake at all, is it? It’s the point. The reason you go through.”
A shiver went through her. He saw it. He really saw it. “Yes.”
He turned her around to face him. His sleep-softened expression was gone, replaced by a focused intensity. “Your show is in twelve days. My match is the night before. This is the messy part, starting now.” He kissed her, a quick, firm press of lips. “I have to go lift heavy things and get yelled at. What’s your day?”
“Studio. Glazing and varnishing. Trying not to panic.”
“Right.” He nodded, as if filing it away. “I’ll be done by two. I’ll come by the studio. Bring you a decent coffee, not that tar you students drink.”
“That’s a sweeping and accurate judgement.”
“I’m a man of discerning taste.” He grinned, then his smile faltered. “Tonight, the team has a sponsor dinner. It’s mandatory. Suits, small talk, the whole grim parade. I won’t be back until late.”
“Okay.” The word felt small. This was the new rhythm.
He must have heard the slight drop in her voice. He hooked a finger under her chin. “It’s just dinner. My head is right here.” He tapped his temple. “And my heart…” He took her hand and placed it flat on his chest, over the steady, strong beat. “Is right here.”
She swallowed. “Go lift your heavy things. I’ll see you at two.”
He didn’t let go of her hand immediately. He looked at her, really looked, as if checking for cracks. Then he kissed her knuckles. “At two.”
He walked towards the bathroom, then paused, glancing back at her over his shoulder, a playful glint returning to his eye. “And Roz? Next time you’re here, pack a toothbrush. My training toothpaste tastes like cement and regret.”
She laughed, and the sound seemed to brighten the grey room. “Noted.”
The shower started. She stood in the quiet, listening to the water and the rain, her hand still tingling where his lips had been. The quiet bit was over. The day, with all its chaotic, beautiful demands, had begun. She turned and looked once more at her painting, at the red line daring her forward, and felt a surge of defiant courage. She was ready.
She was ready. The flat felt too empty after he left, the silence where his voice and his laughter had been just hours before now a palpable thing. She cleaned her brushes in his sink, the turpentine smell cutting through the lingering scent of him, and tried to settle the low hum of anxiety in her veins. It was the mess, starting. The not-knowing of his world.
Her own world was varnish and panic, a frantic twelve-day countdown. The studio was a cathedral of controlled chaos, her corner a nest of half-finished canvases and the pervasive smell of linseed oil. She jumped when her phone buzzed at 1:58. A single message from Ally: Door’s open. Come up when you’re done. I’ll be out of the shower.
The simplicity of it, the assumed welcome, unspooled a knot in her chest.
She let herself in an hour later, the familiar creak of the floorboards a welcome sound. The shower was still running, a steady hiss from behind the bathroom door. Steam crept out from the gap at the bottom, carrying the clean, sharp scent of his soap. She set the two takeaway coffees on the counter and leaned against it, listening.
The water shut off. A beat of silence, then the sound of the curtain rings scraping back.
The bathroom door opened.
He came out dressed in only a towel, low on his hips. He was dripping. Water glistened in the dark trails of hair on his chest, beaded on his shoulders. One drop traced a slow path down the defined groove of his sternum. Roz’s gaze flicked to it, then away, heat flooding her cheeks.
He laughed, a soft, warm sound. “It’s okay, baby. You’re allowed to look.”
He crossed the room towards her, the damp towel absorbing the light. He didn’t stop until he was right in front of her, the heat from his body radiating through her clothes. He smelled of steam and skin.
“Hey,” she managed, her voice faint.
“Hey.” His eyes held hers, a playful challenge in them. Then, slowly, he reached for the tucked end of the towel at his waist. He opened it, not dropping it, but pulling her forward into the space within it, wrapping the damp cotton around her back. She was enveloped in warmth and his scent, her front pressed against his bare, wet skin.
His hands cupped her bum through her jeans, the fabric bunching in his strong grip, pulling her firmly against him. She gasped, her hands landing flat on his slick chest for balance.
“We’re allowed to be sexy,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. His voice was low, stripped of its usual playful ease, layered with something raw and earnest. “We’re allowed to enjoy each other. I want you to feel that you can desire me in the way I desire you. It’s not just me looking, Roz.”
He leaned back just enough to see her face. Water from his hair dripped onto her forehead. His expression was utterly open, vulnerable in its intensity. He was offering her this—his body, still flushed from the shower, the proof of his physicality—not as a possession, but as an invitation. A shared thing.
Her hesitation melted, burned away by the direct heat of his words. Her gaze traveled down, over the water-slicked planes of his chest, the taut stomach, lower. She let herself look, truly look, and felt a corresponding, thrilling pull deep in her own belly. This wasn’t shyness. It was a slow, dawning recognition of her own power.
“I do,” she whispered. Her fingers, still on his chest, curled slightly, her nails grazing his skin.
A shudder went through him. His grip on her tightened. “Say it again.”
She lifted her eyes to his. “I desire you, Alistair MacLeod.”
The sound he made was half-groan, half-triumph. He claimed her mouth in a kiss that was all damp heat and unmistakable intent, a silent echo of the night before but sharper, hungrier, now that the first layer of mystery was gone. The towel, still trapped between them, grew warm.
When they broke apart, both were breathing hard. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. “Good. That’s… that’s everything.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Now, I’m getting your jeans all wet. And I have to put on a suit that feels like cardboard.”
The sudden shift to the mundane was jarring, but real. This was it. The messy, beautiful collision of their two realities.
“The coffee’s on the counter,” she said, her voice unsteady.
“You’re a saint.” He released her, retucking the towel with a practiced twist. He grabbed his coffee, took a long sip, and grimaced. “Still hot. Perfect.” He headed for the bedroom, pausing at the door. “The spare key is in the ceramic bowl by the door. Take it. Let yourself in anytime. Even if I’m not here.”
He said it so casually, as if handing over a key to his life was the most natural next step. Perhaps, for him, it was. He disappeared into the bedroom, leaving her standing in the middle of his living room, the imprint of his wet body cooling on her shirt, a key waiting in a bowl, and the vivid, thrilling certainty that there was no going back through that red-lined door.