Always Alchemy: The Ever After Book (Alchemy #6)

4. Getting Schooled

4

GETTING SCHOOLED

AIDA

T he beautiful chapel at Eton College is lit only by candlelight, and I can’t deny the effect its solemn beauty has on me. Half of me is horrified Pip ended up at such an insanely elite school. The other half laps this shit up. He’s walked along the same cloisters as the royal princes and half of this country’s former Prime Ministers and God knows who else.

It’s crazy. But it’s fun, too.

My husband is standing beside me, holding my hand and running the pad of his thumb over my wedding and engagement rings like they’re stress toys. Over and over. I don’t think he’s even conscious of doing it.

Reminding himself that I’m wearing his rings seems to be his favourite thing.

One of his favourite things.

I can’t believe Pip’s first term at Eton has almost drawn to a close. Next week, we’ll drive back out here to take him home for the holidays. I can’t wait to hug the heck out of him later, even if he’s taller than me now. But first, carols. Readings. Reflections.

As the school choir sings Once in Royal David’s City so hauntingly, so perfectly, I allow myself a glance around this space. The stone vaulted ceiling is exquisite, as is the immense gilded organ. Pip is singing along with the rest of them in the choir stalls, reading glasses glinting faintly in the candlelight and his red and white cassock pristine.

He looks so handsome, and not a little like his dad. Happily, John and Kit came along together for last night’s service, so we’re saved the presence of my ex this evening.

My gaze flits, as it so often does, back to my husband. He’s gorgeous in profile, with his raked-back hair and sexy broken nose. I now know it was indeed a rugby injury. He’s absorbed in the beautiful carol, but he must grow aware of my eyes on him, because he glances down at me and grins. The love in his eyes has me squeezing his hand harder, because I just cannot with this man.

If you’d told me two years ago that I’d be willing to give holy matrimony another shot, I would have laughed you out of town. But Cal is one persuasive guy. He’s totally shameless about using every trick in the book to get his own way. Often, those tricks involve body parts, but usually, he just goes on and on and on until he’s broken his victim down.

Callum Sinclair always gets what he wants.

And he wanted me.

I’m the luckiest woman alive.

It turns out, Pip is less excited about hugging his poor old mom than I am about hugging him. I get a couple squeezes when we hang out after the service in a beautiful hall, but they’re not enough. They never are. Cal, though, gets a great big man hug—probably because he’s way cooler than me.

‘How are you enjoying it so far?’ he asks, putting his hands on Pip’s skinny shoulders and bending a little to look him in the eye. ‘They treating you well?’

‘Yeah. It’s great.’

‘Food good?’

‘It’s fine. Breakfast is good.’

‘How’s your housemaster?’

‘He’s nice.’

Good. Nice. Fine.

I try not to sigh. Two-word sentences of single syllable words are par for the course with thirteen-year-old boys.

‘Glad to hear it. You think you’re finding your tribe?’

Cal had a pretty long heart-to-heart with Pip before he headed off to Eton in September. By the sounds of it, Cal’s time at school was hugely successful. I’m sure it helped that he was sporty, good-looking and easy to get along with. Pip’s a lovely kid, but far more introverted, and Cal’s been well aware of how much my maternal heart has broken at sending him away to board.

If I had my chance, he’d be at a nice London day school so he could stay home with his mom, where he belongs. But Pip wanted this—badly—and Cal was determined to set him up to succeed. To persuade him be true to himself and his interests and to find his people.

‘Yeah.’ Pip’s face brightens. ‘The guys in my house are nice, and I’ve made some friends on The Florentia. ’

‘Bloody awesome!’ Cal says. He holds up his hand for a high five and Pip smacks it hard. ‘Those journalism genes run deep.’

I smile, because The Florentia is Eton’s environmental magazine, and I love on so many levels that he’s gotten involved with it.

After the boys have been rounded up to head back to their houses, I sigh and allow myself a moment to lay my head on my husband’s shoulder.

‘My heart hurts.’

He runs his hands down my upper arms, and I can feel their warmth through my dress. ‘I know, baby. I know.’

I lift my head and blow out a breath. ‘He seems okay, right?’

‘He’s fine. More than fine. I was watching him when he went over to stuff his face with mince pies—they were all laughing and joking together. They look like decent boys.’

‘I know—he’s so quiet, though.’

‘With us. He’s quiet with us. He’s a teenager, for God’s sake. He was happy as Larry with those kids when I was spying on them.’

‘Okay.’ I nod, more to convince myself than for any other reason.

He smiles at me, those brown eyes glowing with the warm light of affection. ‘My trophy wife is looking particularly beautiful tonight.’

I roll my eyes, but I don’t mean it. The trophy thing is kind of a joke between us. He knows I want to hate it, and he also knows I fucking love it.

Fuck my life.

‘My trophy husband is hot as fuck,’ I whisper back, letting my teeth snag on my bottom lip in exactly the way I know drives him wild, and his eyes narrow in response.

‘Nah. I’m no trophy tonight. This isn’t my crowd. Too pompous.’ His fingers make circles over my biceps. ‘But they’ve all got a hard-on for you. Even the women. And I thought that old bore would never let you go. ’

I laugh. He’s referring to some dad who cornered me about my interview with the Chancellor last week. ‘He was fine,’ I say. ‘It didn’t bother me.’

‘Yeah, but it bothered me.’ He takes a step closer, his voice dropping. ‘You know how it makes me when everyone goes feral for you.’

I do know. I know very well. When I get attention, my husband gets a kick out of it. He gets all smug and possessive, and it’s slightly obnoxious and extremely hot.

‘Tell me,’ I say. I lick my bottom lip, and his eyes track the movement.

‘How about I show you?’

My eyes flit nervously around the room and back to him. ‘Can’t you at least pretend to be appropriate for one night? We’re at Eton. ’

‘And where’s the fun in that?’ he asks. ‘Humour me. Let’s just go for a little wander. Explore these fine buildings.’

Someone needs to be the grownup here. ‘No way,’ I tell him. ‘I know what your definition of a little wander is.’ I really do. He’ll find the nearest disabled bathroom, or worse, someone’s study.

He huffs, and it’s the huff of a little boy who’s been told no. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘The car it is. Why don’t you go powder your nose and follow me out? I’ll get the seat heaters cranked up.’

CAL

It’s not the first time I’ve been to Eton. I played rugby here enough times when I was at school. And God knows my own school, St Ignatius of Loyola College, was pretty spectacular.

But this is something else.

My heart broke this evening, seeing how much Aida misses Pip. At thirteen, I was raring to go away to board, and I know Kit will be exactly the same. He’s fucking dying for it. At breakfast this morning, he was full of chat about how cool it was to see Pip’s dorm last night. He’ll be fine when he comes here in two years’ time.

But Pip’s a different matter. He’s bookish and cerebral, like his mum, but without her confidence. I didn’t know thirteen-year-old Aida, but I bet she had swagger. I bet you didn’t mess with her, even then.

Every instinct I have tells me Pip’s as close to thriving as we could hope for, given we’re only one term in. I watched him like a hawk tonight. He had colour in his cheeks and a spring in his step—all the clichés that tell a parent their kid isn’t drowning. And I’ve really rated his housemaster the couple of times we’ve met him.

This parenting shit is weird. To say I was apprehensive was an understatement, but I made a decision not to overthink it endlessly. I approached being an adult in Pip and Kit’s lives, and then being their stepfather, in the same way I approach most things: optimistically and enthusiastically.

I thought the painful part would be the obvious stuff. You know, dealing with tantrums, having arguments about homework, giving up lazy mornings in favour of Saturday football. And yeah, some of that is fucking dull, but some of it is actually very cool. Especially taking Kit to football. He’s seriously fast.

But what I mean is that the parts I find the most painful are the emotional tugs. Obviously, I’m not their parent. But I love their mother, and I’m committed to spending the rest of my life with her, and part of that means loving her boys and being a positive force in their lives. A bonus adult, if you like.

So when we drove Pip to school for the first time in September and helped him unpack in his dorm and then waved goodbye to him?

Fucking brutal.

When Kit got smacked badly on the hand by a fast football one Saturday morning and I took him straight to the paediatric A&E at Chelsea and Westminster?

Also fucking brutal. Even though he’d only broken a couple of fingers and not, as I feared, his wrist.

I’m invested, I suppose. I’m invested in Aida, and in her happiness, and in the happiness of the two little people she’s brought into the world. And the whole thing is a royal head fuck, because it’s emotional and demanding and exhausting and rewarding on a level I couldn’t have fathomed before I dove head first into this thing we’re doing.

I’m happy, too. Like, really fucking happy. I feel… purposeful, maybe? Because the three of them seem to be as happy to have me around as I am to be there. I’m that guy now. Saturday football guy. Farmer’s market guy. School carol concerts guy.

And Aida’s opening the car door, which means in about ninety seconds, I’ll also be car sex guy. For the first time since that dark, dark day when Zach took me (with immense glee on his part, I might add) to trade in my fancy sports car for a fucking Range Rover, I give thanks for the spaciousness of this car.

And also for its fast-heating seats.

‘Get in here,’ I mutter, helping her off with her coat and chucking it in the back seat .

‘Geez, it’s cold,’ she huffs as she clambers over my knee to straddle me in the driver’s seat.

‘I’ll keep you warm, baby,’ I mutter, circling her waist and tugging her down on top of me. I’m hardening by the second. Fuck, I love her so much.

‘I’m not taking my clothes off.’

‘No need. My magical dick can punch through as many layers as needed.’

That makes her laugh. ‘Your power drill.’

‘Believe it, baby.’ My voice might sound marginally distracted, because I’m frantically burrowing under the soft, fine wool of her flowing dress to find nirvana. ‘Fuck. Are you wearing fucking tights?’

‘It’s December. Of course I am. Turbo dick can’t handle it?’

I love it when she gets all mocking and sarcastic, because it just fuels my fire. In about three minutes, when she’s writhing on my cock and unable to string a sentence together, it’ll make my victory all the sweeter.

‘Nope. It’s fine. I just—wait a sec.’ Shit. They’re quite thick. I close my eyes to feel my way and grab at the fabric around the crotch area. When I have a firm grip with both hands I tug, hard, and it tears with a ripping sound.

‘They were Falke,’ she protests with a laugh that’s breathy enough to know my caveman act is getting her hot. ‘They’re super expensive.’

‘Tough shit. I’ll buy you some more. Or you can keep wearing these ones so your legs stay warm but I can access that pussy whenever I like.’ I lower my voice. ‘What would you think of that?’

‘I’d be good with that,’ she says with a shiver, because I’m now stroking my knuckles lightly over the wet fabric of her thong. She slides her hands up my chest, loosening my tie and unbuttoning the top couple of buttons of my shirt. Her fingers are cold when she slides them under my collar so she can touch my skin, but I don’t care. ‘God, you look so hot in a tie. It makes me crazy.’

‘Useful pieces of kit, ties,’ I observe before she drops her face to mine. I cannot resist this woman. Can’t resist any single part of her. I extricate one hand from under her dress so I can tangle my fingers in her hair and grab at her neck and pull her face closer. Not that she needs any encouragement. She’s sucking on my lower lip and entangling her tongue with mine—devouring me, basically.

I use my finger to hook her thong and yank it aside. Between that and the crotch-hole I made, I’ve got enough access. My wife is hot and soaking and so fucking slick it’s enough to drive a man mad.

Clearly, I should wear a tie more often.

‘Once again you’re a dirty little whore for my fingers,’ I murmur against her lips. ‘Just like that very first time.’

Her giggle turns to a sharp intake of breath through her teeth as I manoeuvre my hand enough to wedge two fingers inside her while my thumb finds her needy, swollen clit.

She moans and pushes down on my hand. ‘Jesus, sweetie. You’re not wrong.’

I slide my fingers out and back in. The only thought in my mind is how good this slick vice will feel around my cock in about thirty seconds.

‘Take me out, baby.’

She rests her forehead against mine as she wrestles with my belt and zipper, her movements clumsy and hurried because I’m still working her.

‘I wonder what all those pompous arseholes would say if they could see Aida Russell getting finger-fucked and loving it in the car park,’ I muse idly .

‘Probably please remove your son from our establishment and never come back,’ she retorts, and I laugh.

‘Better be quick then.’

It seems we’re on the same page, because she’s rearing up, and cursing as her knee momentarily slides off the side of the seat, and batting away the fabric of her dress so she can take my cock like the greedy girl we both know she is.

‘Put me inside you,’ I order her, removing my hand from her warm centre and grabbing her around the waist so she doesn’t go sideways again when she starts riding me. Probably should have done this in the back seat, come to think of it.

She makes a few adorable little noises of frustration and effort as she lifts herself over me, and holds her thong to one side, and feeds my impossibly stiff cock through the wretched hole in her tights.

And then she’s sliding my crown against her pussy, her wetness and mine coating each other like the best kind of lube, and I jolt. I have no leverage here to fuck her, so she’ll have to do most of the work, but fuck, does this feel incredible. And when she sinks down on me, the relief and awe and completion that consume me are like nothing else.

‘Arch your back if you can, sweetheart,’ I tell her, and she does, grabbing both my shoulder and the inner handle of the door to steady herself. I lower my mouth to the hard little nipple poking through her dress and bite lightly through the fabric, and her shuddery whimper is the best kind of feedback.

‘I need it quick,’ she gasps. ‘And hard.’

‘Yeah,’ I mutter against her tit. ‘And when I get you home, I’ll tie you up with this tie and fuck you nice and slow. I might blindfold you and make you blow me first.’

She moans. My classy, bold, intellectual powerhouse of a wife still loves nothing more than for me to overpower her. Control her.

‘Ride me,’ I say, before biting down on her fabric-covered nipple, harder this time. I grip her hips and help her lever herself up and down on my lap, and fuck me, the sensation of her cunt dragging up and down along the length of my shaft is a fucking revelation.

Just like it is every single time.

I am not going to last. It’s too dirty, fucking like horny teenagers in the car park of Britain’s most elite school.

‘Rub your clit for me,’ I mumble as I tease her with my teeth and tongue. She withdraws the hand that was gripping my shoulder and burrows under her skirts again. Her fingers brush against the base of my cock, but the moment they make contact with her clit, she’s riding me harder, driving herself down onto me with every stroke until her breaths turn to moans and she collapses, her temple resting on my hair as she brings herself to a shuddering orgasm.

Thank fuck. I let rip as hard as I can with a volley of hip thrusts as her inner muscles clench around me, and then that divine burst of heat is racing up my dick and I’m coming too, jetting hot ropes deep inside my beautiful, spectacular, and totally fucking shameless wife.

I raise my face to kiss her, to show her how much I adore and respect her, how completely besotted I am. Our kiss is as slow and gentle as our fuck was fast and rough.

Both ways are amazing.

Every way is amazing with her.

It’s all amazing with her.