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“No one’s ever let me eat in bed before.” Mycroft said, his tone going for dry, but coming out rather dreamy much to his chagrin. He chalked it up to the afterglow.
The woman in bed next to him sighed, eyes and fingers not leaving her mobile as she said, “No one’s ever appreciated you the way I do.”
Mycroft felt his lips twitch at that as he looked away from the plate of chocolate cake he held in his hands, eyes now inspecting her. She changed her name the way most people changed clothes. She had told him earlier that evening that this night was an ‘Anthea’ kind of night.
He knew exactly what that meant, but sometimes, he really wished she would just go by her real name. She might despise it, but he thought it rather lovely – albeit hard to spell and pronounce properly.
He licked his lips and returned his full attention to the cake. It was moist and sweet, the crowning jewel from the restaurant where they had dined earlier. The chef had given it to him with ‘his compliments’. Mycroft was very complimented indeed as he took another delicious forkful. He should worry about the carbs, but, honestly, he had burned off quite an impressive amount a few moments ago.
He stretched slightly in his reclined position, cushy pillows cradling his back nicely and breathed out, “Remind me to send a card to Chef Franz. Something formal, yet highlighting my appreciation.”
“Already done.”
He shook his head, “Of course.”
“Normally you don’t even ask, you just know that I’ve-”
“Yes, but I believe the sugar content in this particular dish is astronomically high. Elevated blood pressure interferes with good brainwork.”
“So, only the desert is making you light headed?”
“Well, you certainly played a contributing part, but now you’re more concerned with your phone, so I rather think-” Mycroft’s words cut off as his own mobile beeped quietly. He looked at her and she raised one eyebrow, her head lifting to nod in the phone’s direction. He eyed his cake, finished it off with a few more quick bites, and then set the plate to one side before grabbing his phone.
There was one text message. He read it and then looked at her with slightly narrowed eyes, “You know, you could have just said that. I am right here, after all.”
“I’m shy.”
“Never.”
She laughed and the sound was as sweet as the cake had been, “Well, I am a bit…hesitant to say that to you.”
“Considering what you were earlier shouting in the throes of ecstasy, one should think that what you’ve texted me now to be trifle in comparison.”
“Mmm, one should think.” She whispered and, for the briefest of moments, there was a terrible vulnerability about her.
It took Mycroft back to when he first met her. This poor, wretched thing – scrawny and lost. Used and abused and abandoned. But strength, such strength in her. Sapped, yes, but beneath the surface, he had seen it clawing at her, keeping her going. And intelligence – such a keen intelligence so wasted. She had reminded him, oddly enough, of his younger brother.
Addiction and bad decisions keeping her from such wonderful potential.
He had taken her from the streets, from those dark, awful, unspeakable places, dusted her off and given her purpose. And then, much to his surprise, she had returned the favor. More so, really, and he looked at the message she had written him again, heart full.
His fingers worked quickly and, soon enough, her mobile chirped. She read the message he had sent her and her eyes glazed with unshed tears, bottom lip quivering slightly. She cleared her throat and looked at him, “Yeah?”
“Dear, you know better than to even ask.”
She let out a watery gasp, “Yes, I suppose so.”
He looked at his empty plate then, face full of longing, and she was smiling so hard her face hurt as she whispered, “I got you another piece.”
Mycroft looked at her hopefully, “Did you?”
“I thought you knew everything?”
“Not everything.”
She got to her feet and took his empty plate, exiting the room only to return a few moments later with another luscious looking slice of cake. She handed it to him and he delicately used his fork to carve off a piece. He offered it to her and she obligingly ate it, a pleasured moan escaping her, “That is quite good.”
Mycroft put the cake aside and drew her close to him, mouth hovering near hers, “Yes, but there is something much more appetizing in my arms right now.”
She blushed and he savored it, as it was something she rarely did, and when she spoke, the voice she used was most defiantly not an ‘Anthea’ kind of voice, “Mycroft…”
“Anthea.”
“No,” she murmured, fingers tracing his chin, eyes meeting his, “You can…say it. You can say my name.”
He blinked, “Really?”
She kissed him once, twice, then drew away and swallowed, nodding as she, so quietly he almost missed it, whispered the very words she had texted him earlier.
Mycroft smiled, said her name, and then kissed her, hungrier for her, for the real her, than he had ever been for any slice of cake.