Do Your Worst(68)
There was no getting around that last part; she’d checked.
“It won’t be easy to pull off. There’s a lot we’ll need to set up, and once it starts, if either one of us balks, it could blow the whole thing.”
Clark pulled out his notebook and uncapped the pen tucked inside. “What do you need me to do?”
As Riley outlined the steps of the ritual, she made sure Clark had an opportunity to weigh in on and agree to each act. By the end of it, she actually felt confident that his questions and suggested tweaks had made things better.
Well, mostly she felt confident.
“Are you sure you can build a tub using raw materials from a garden supply store and the remains of one of those old stoves in the kitchen?” She frowned down at the sketch he’d done of a proposed design.
“You just worry about your part of the list”—he closed his notebook with a clap—“and I’ll worry about mine.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “Then there’s just one more thing.”
“Hmm?” Clark began packing up, folding his chair and shoving it into its little carrying bag.
“I think it would be best if you didn’t masturbate leading up to the ritual so that we can make sure you have, you know, enough stuff.”
His head shot up, “Are you implying that I underperformed in that area last time?”
“No,” she rushed to assure him, trying not to dig up that memory. “Trust me. You were very . . . effective.”
She covered her eyes as he smirked.
“I’m just trying to cover all our bases.”
“Whatever you need.” Clark hitched the strap of the bag higher on his shoulder and gave her a once-over that teetered on the edge of a leer. “It’s my pleasure to be of service.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. What was that saying? Hoisted by her own petard?
The next day, she recruited Ceilidh to help hunt down her half of the supplies.
“An enemies-to-lovers sex ritual with a smoldering Englishman?” The Scotswoman groaned. “Why are the requirements of your job so much better than mine?”
They bought salt in bulk and gathered rowanberries, going back to Ceilidh’s little flat to cook the vivid red fruit down, low and slow, for hours, trying to get the consistency right. They ended up adding some wild honey from a local crofter. It perfectly cut the tartness, turning the bubbling ruby mixture sticky and just shy of syrup-thick. Riley stuck her finger in the cooling concoction and brought it to her mouth for a lick. Perfect.
By Wednesday, they were almost ready. Clark assured her that even though an issue with a valve had “thrown a spanner in the works,” the tub would be ready the following night.
The last thing to do was have the slightly awkward but necessary conversation about protection.
While Clark chopped firewood, they ran through STI testing (good to go) and birth control (Riley’s IUD). It all felt very mature, as close to professional as they could make it.
Finally, the day of reckoning arrived with everything prepped, carefully outlined. There was nothing left to do but it.
Thankfully, they’d agreed to wait until sundown. Cover of darkness just seemed like it would make things slightly less awkward.
Riley didn’t mean to be late, but the rowanberry mixture had to be fresh and the stove at Ceilidh’s decided to act up at the last minute. By the time she finally got dropped off at the castle, Ceilidh laying on the horn and shouting, “Happy boning!” as she peeled out, Riley could see from the warm orange glow on the stained glass windows that Clark had already arrived.
She expected to walk in to flashlights and lanterns, but instead found—“Holy shit, Clark.”
He’d put real candles in the chandelier, and more in the few surviving wall sconces. The effect created just the right play of light and shadow to bring out the room’s faded glory.
“It’s beautiful.”
When she finally managed to stop taking in the ceiling and the walls, she saw what else he’d done. In the cleared-out center of the room lay a clean canvas tarp. On top was the mattress from his camper, covered in fresh sheets and blankets, piled with all the cushions she recognized off his couch. To the side sat a neat stack of towels, a big flask of water, and two metal cups.
Riley pressed a hand to the squeezing in her chest. “You made it nice.”
She knew it wasn’t a romantic gesture. He was practical and safety oriented. He probably didn’t want to break his back rolling around on the cold floor in the dark, that’s all. No doubt he would stop in the middle of sex to lecture her on the importance of hydration.
“Thank you,” she said anyway, meaning it. The gesture felt like flowers before a date—no, actually, better. It felt like someone caring about her comfort. Like Clark wanting her to know she was worth the effort.
“Yes, well, just because we have to strip down in the middle of a crumbling castle doesn’t mean we have to be uncomfortable the entire time.” He stood with his hands behind his back, his face giving nothing away. “The tub was the real achievement.”
Oh! She hadn’t even noticed. But there, in the corner. The rig he’d built was impressive, a structure of stacked bricks that looked almost like a pizza oven with a grate, a chimney she recognized from her very memorable foray into the kitchen, and a large metal trough on top.