The Eliza Flint Island Hours Inner Circle

Thank you for reading Too Private to Publish

An exclusive to Too Private To Publish readers bonus chapter

This edition is supplied exclusively for the personal enjoyment of Eliza Flint readers.

The first evening after the scandal ended, Rosehill found three perfectly innocent reasons to prevent Celia Hart from taking off her clothes.

The first interruption arrived at seventeen minutes past five in the form of a telephone call from Beryl Knox, who wanted to know whether the chairs in the community hall ought to remain in rows.

Celia stood in her bedroom with one earring in, one on the dressing table and a blouse spread across the bed that she had already decided was too obvious.

“Rows for what?” she asked.

“Thursday.”

“What is happening on Thursday?”

There was a pause suggesting Celia had failed a small but important civic examination.

“The usual things.”

“Put the chairs away, Beryl.”

“All of them? What about the six near the urn?”

Celia looked at the clock. Gavin had said six.

“Leave the six near the urn.”

“You sound busy.”

“I am getting dressed.”

Another pause followed. This one contained interest.

“At this hour?”

“Yes, Beryl. At this hour.”

Celia ended the call before the conversation could become an inquisition. For weeks, every sound from the telephone had brought another accusation, photograph or demand that she explain something that had been nobody’s business before somebody made it public. Tonight the anonymous account was exposed, deleted and finished.

She carried the telephone into the kitchen, where it could remain useful without appearing presumptuous beside the bed. She had invited Gavin to dinner, not to spend the night. Anything beyond dinner remained unarranged, although she had changed the sheets and moved three books from the side of the bed he preferred.

The blouse she wore was cream, composed and gave no indication that she had spent part of the afternoon wondering how quickly Gavin could remove it. She unbuttoned the top button, then fastened it again.

“This is absurd,” she told her reflection.

Her reflection appeared unconvinced.

The second interruption came at twenty-six minutes past five when somebody knocked on the front door. Celia opened it to find Arthur Bell holding a glass casserole dish with a blue plastic lid.

“This yours?”

“No.”

Arthur turned the dish as though her ownership might be written on the other side. “Marjorie thought you brought something in it to the fundraiser.”

“I did not attend the fundraiser.”

“That would explain why she wasn’t certain.” His gaze travelled past Celia into the hall. “Quiet evening.”

“That was the intention.”

He took one step away, then stopped. “Good thing, what happened today. No one should have had to live like that.”

Before Celia could answer, he walked towards the road carrying the casserole dish as though it contained information of national significance. Rosehill had not apologised. It had simply begun producing individual moments of decency and hoping nobody drew attention to them.

At five forty-nine, she heard Gavin’s vehicle. She knew the sound before it turned into her street, which annoyed her. She remained in the kitchen for nearly four seconds before moving into the hall.

Gavin pulled up directly outside, in full view of the road and anyone passing with unidentified bakeware. Celia opened the door before he knocked. He stood on the step holding a paper bag and a bottle of wine. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms. His gaze moved from her face to the neckline of her blouse and back.

“You unfastened a button,” he said.

“Good evening, Gavin.”

“It was buttoned higher this afternoon.”

“You were looking at my blouse during a public meeting?”

“I was looking at you.”

She stepped aside. He did not move.

“You are standing on my doorstep holding dinner and looking argumentative.”

“I’m deciding whether I’m allowed to kiss you before I come inside.”

Celia glanced towards the road. Arthur was still visible beside a letterbox. Gavin followed her gaze, then looked back at her.

“Celia.”

He was not asking her to prove anything to him or the island. He was waiting to see whether she would greet him like a man she wanted or admit him like a tradesperson.

Celia took the bottle, caught the front of his shirt and kissed him. The paper bag rustled between them as his free hand settled at her waist. By the time she pulled back, she had forgotten Arthur and the open door.

“Good evening,” she said.

“That was better.”

He crossed the threshold. Celia closed the door and locked it.

“Expecting visitors?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Neither of them moved towards the kitchen. Gavin kissed her again, slower this time, his thumb stroking beneath her ear.

“Dinner,” she reminded him.

“I brought it.”

“We should eat it.”

“We should.”

For several seconds, they did nothing of the sort.

Gavin had brought fish, chips and enough salad to suggest he had briefly considered nutrition. Celia unpacked the paper parcels while he poured the wine.

“You could have come around the back,” she said.

“The house has a front door.”

“It also has a side gate.”

“Is that where you receive men after dark?”

“It is not dark.”

“Yet.”

“Arriving directly outside attracts attention.”

“Arthur Bell nearly dislocated his neck.”

“He was returning a casserole dish.”

“To whom?”

“Nobody appears to know.”

Gavin lifted his glass. “To the end of anonymous commentary accompanied by photographs taken through shrubbery.”

Celia touched her glass to his. “I’ll accept that.”

They managed several minutes of dinner without incident. Nobody telephoned, knocked or slowed outside. Gavin ate with the concentration of a man who was making up for having missed breakfast and lunch. Celia watched him until he looked up.

“You seem very calm,” she said.

“I’m eating fish.”

“After today.”

“I was there for today.”

The account’s deletion had not produced the clean ending Celia had imagined. There had been embarrassment, anger and people insisting they had always thought it went too far. Then every accusation and careful little act of cruelty had disappeared between one refresh and the next. She had spent the afternoon waiting for something else to happen.

“It is too quiet,” she said.

“People will still talk,” Gavin said. “Most will become interested in something else as soon as somebody parks badly near the ferry.”

“That does not make what happened acceptable.”

“No. It also does not require us to decide whether Rosehill has achieved moral reform before dessert.”

“You have finished discussing public responsibility because it suits you.”

“I have finished for tonight.”

The edge in his voice stopped her.

“You came through the front door in full view of half the street.”

“Arthur Bell is not half the street.”

“He will be once he reaches the shop.”

Gavin’s lips twitched. “I am not asking you to announce anything or prove the past month has not frightened you. But I will not park around the corner because somebody might notice I want to have dinner with you.”

“I suggested discretion.”

“We have been discreet.”

“Clearly not enough.”

He went still. “I am not the person who made our private life public.”

The hurt in his face was restrained, which made it worse. Celia had become so accustomed to defending herself that she had begun answering questions Gavin had not asked.

“I’m sorry. I know you did not cause this. I simply do not know how to stop anticipating the next thing.”

“You don’t have to stop tonight. I’m asking whether there is room for what is actually happening instead of everything that might.”

He turned one hand palm up between them. Celia placed hers in it.

“What is actually happening?” she asked.

“Dinner.” His thumb moved across her knuckles. “You should eat.”

“That was almost tender.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

They finished with their hands touching between the plates. When Gavin rinsed them afterwards, Celia watched the movement of his damp forearms and the pull of his shirt across his shoulders. He dried his hands and came to stand between her knees, placing both palms beside her hips without touching her.

That was worse.

“You are leaning on my table,” she said.

“I am.”

His mouth was close enough that she could feel his breath. For one suspended moment, there was no public question left in the room.

The third interruption arrived on Celia’s telephone.

Gavin closed his eyes and stepped back. Celia picked up the device. A new Rosehill Community Thread post had appeared.

HAS ROSEHILL BECOME TOO QUIET?

Give it time. Someone will object to the silence.

I already have.

Then another comment loaded.

Does anyone know why Gavin Pike’s vehicle is outside Celia Hart’s house?

Celia’s stomach dropped, but the comment vanished almost at once.

Removed. Private movements are not community information.

A second moderator notice followed.

The Thread is not a replacement for the deleted account. Do not post sightings, photographs or speculation about private relationships.

Beryl Knox wrote:

Quite right.

Arthur Bell added:

People are entitled to eat dinner.

Someone asked how Arthur knew. He did not answer.

“The comment was posted,” Celia said.

“And removed.” Gavin turned the telephone facedown. “Somebody drew the line without you having to draw it for them.”

Another notification appeared. Judith Lane had written:

A few people are gathering at the hall at seven. Nothing formal. They are shaken by what happened and would appreciate hearing from you and Gavin. No pressure, but it might help settle things.

Celia read it twice. A gathering might help, and she was very good at entering an uncertain room and giving it shape. She began typing.

Of course. We can be there shortly.

Her thumb hovered above send. Gavin picked up his keys.

“What were you expecting to happen tonight?” she asked.

“Dinner. Then I wanted to finish the wine, find out whether that blouse has as many buttons as it appears to and take you upstairs without either of us pretending we ended up there by accident.”

Heat rose beneath Celia’s collar. “And tomorrow?”

“I thought we might have breakfast.”

“That is extremely presumptuous.”

“Yes.”

There would always be another evening. That was what responsible people told themselves while giving away the one they had.

“Do you want to go?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then why didn’t you say so?”

“Because I am not going to become another person deciding what you should do.”

Celia knew how to resist pressure. Freedom was less familiar.

She deleted the acceptance and typed:

Thank you for asking. Gavin and I are unavailable tonight. Please let everyone know we are all right and that anything further can wait until tomorrow.

Judith replied within a minute.

Of course. I’m glad you’re together. We’ll manage here. Sleep well.

One final message arrived from Beryl: a photograph of six chairs arranged in a semicircle facing the urn.

Compromise.

Celia turned the telephone off and placed it in a kitchen drawer. Gavin switched off his own and laid it beside hers.

“That is rather intimate,” she said.

“I’ve been trying to achieve intimate all evening.”

She closed the drawer. “No one can reach us.”

“The door is locked.”

“You checked?”

“Twice.”

This time, when Gavin stepped closer, Celia did not look towards the window. She unfastened the top button of his shirt, then the next.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“What I had planned before Rosehill required emotional closure.”

“And what was that?”

“That depends on whether this shirt has as many buttons as it appears to.”

“You could count them upstairs.”

Celia caught his collar and kissed him, then took his hand and led him towards the stairs.

“What about the hall meeting?” Gavin asked.

“Surviving without us.”

“And the chairs?”

“Facing the urn.”

On the third stair, Gavin stopped. He stood one step below her, his face level with the open neckline of her blouse.

“What?” she asked.

“I have been looking at this blouse since I arrived.”

His thumb slid beneath its hem and stroked the skin above her waistband. Celia’s fingers tightened around the banister.

“Are you coming?”

“Yes.” He undid the lowest button. “I’m not in a hurry.”

“You have been trying to get me upstairs all evening.”

“I have spent weeks wanting you while somebody else turned it into evidence. I am not rushing the first time nobody gets to interrupt.”

The humour remained in his eyes, but something beneath it tightened her chest. He wanted the unhurriedness of this, the right to open her blouse one button at a time without an audience and without fear waiting beneath the pleasure.

Celia touched his face. Gavin kissed her palm, then the inside of her wrist as his other hand opened another button.

“You are taking an unnecessary amount of time with this.”

“You turned your telephone off.”

“That was not foreplay.”

“It was from where I was standing.”

Celia laughed, the sound belonging only to them. Then she drew him up a stair and kissed him until his hand slid beneath the loosened blouse, warm against her back.

“Bedroom,” she said.

“Still concerned about efficiency?”

“I am concerned about carpet burns.”

“That sounds like planning.”

“It is experience.”

The bedroom door was open. Gavin’s gaze moved over the fresh sheets, the cleared side table and the lamp turned low.

“Only dinner?” he asked.

“I frequently change my sheets before fish and chips.”

Celia opened his shirt and pushed it from his shoulders. Grey threaded the hair across his chest, a pale scar marked his ribs and there was softness at his waist. He was real and familiar and hers to look at. She moved her hands over his chest and down to his belt.

“You are observing again,” he said.

“Appreciating.”

“Is there a difference?”

She undid the buckle. “Appreciation produces consequences.”

Her hand slid inside his trousers and wrapped around his hard cock. Gavin’s forehead lowered to hers as she stroked him.

“What do you want?” he asked.

His hands held the open edges of her blouse without pushing them apart.

“No one else is here,” he said. “No one gets a vote.”

Wanting Gavin had made her visible and vulnerable to people who treated desire as a weakness to expose. Now the only person asking was the man in front of her.

“I want you naked. On the bed.”

Gavin stepped out of his clothes with less grace than speed.

“That was efficient,” she said.

“You inspired me.”

He sat on the edge of the bed. Celia pushed her blouse from her shoulders and stood between his knees in the light blue bra she had not chosen for dinner. His gaze lingered on the fullness of her breasts and the softness at her stomach until the old urge to cover herself stirred.

Gavin traced the upper edge of her bra. “You changed this too.”

“I own more than one.”

“I’m relieved.”

“That is an inappropriate response.”

“It is a very appropriate bra.”

Celia pushed him back and knelt over him. His laugh became a groan when she took his cock into her mouth. She set a slow pace, using her hand where her mouth could not, enjoying the way his stomach tightened and his hips shifted beneath her.

“Come here,” he said.

“I am occupied.”

“If you continue, this evening will become less balanced than I intended.”

“This is not a committee.”

“Thank Christ.”

He pulled her up and turned her onto her back, his mouth at her throat.

“This is a misuse of process,” she said.

“You can submit a complaint tomorrow.”

He unfastened her bra and drew it away. The heat in his face stole her next remark. His mouth closed over one nipple while his hand stroked the other, and Celia arched beneath him. Her body had spent the entire evening waiting while her mind produced objections.

Gavin removed her trousers and underwear, then kissed her stomach and moved lower. For a moment, embarrassment arrived with desire as he spread her thighs.

“You do not need to look pleased with yourself.”

“I’m pleased with you.”

His tongue moved slowly through her, firm enough to make her hips rise. He explored her without hurry, repeating the pressure that made her grip the sheet. Two fingers slid inside her and curved as his mouth closed over her clitoris. Pleasure tightened low in her body.

There was no telephone, no knock and no voice outside. Nothing beyond the bed existed strongly enough to matter.

Gavin reached for her hand. Their fingers locked.

“Let go,” he murmured.

The orgasm broke through her in deep, pulsing waves. Celia cried out, her hand crushing his as he stayed with her until her body softened. When he lifted his head, his expression was deeply satisfied.

“You look insufferable.”

“I feel excellent.”

He kissed his way up her body. Celia tasted herself on his mouth and felt his erection press against her hip. She reached for him.

“You said what you wanted,” he said.

“I have not finished.”

“Good.”

Gavin shifted onto his back. Celia straddled him, guided him to her and lowered herself slowly. The stretch was full and intensely delicious. His fingers tightened on her thighs.

“Look at me.”

She opened her eyes and sank the rest of the way down. He groaned as she began to move, finding the rhythm and angle that pleased her. Every lift drew him nearly free. Every downward movement filled her again.

Gavin let her set the pace until she leaned forward and he caught one nipple in his mouth. Her rhythm faltered.

“That was deliberate,” she said.

“Yes.”

Celia straightened and rode him harder. His control showed in the tension across his chest and the roughness of his breath. Then a branch scraped against the house and she froze.

“The door is locked,” he said.

“You are sure?”

“I checked twice.”

She laughed. The movement tightened her pussy around him and Gavin swore. He sat up, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. The new angle took him deeper. Celia rocked against him as his hands gripped her bum, holding her on the upstroke and pulling her down again.

“You feel so good,” he said against her neck.

The words were rough and true. Pleasure gathered again with frightening speed.

“Gavin.”

“I’ve got you.”

The phrase entered somewhere deeper than the pleasure. Celia held him as the second orgasm took her without warning or restraint. Her body clenched around his. Gavin groaned her name, thrust upward and held her hard against him as he came.

For several seconds, neither moved. Their breathing slowly eased. Celia remained straddling him, her forehead against his shoulder.

“That,” Gavin said, “was considerably better than the hall meeting.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I’m prepared to make a confident assessment.”

“There may have been cake.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

He lowered them sideways and drew the sheet over their legs. Celia listened to the silence while his hand moved along her back. It no longer felt like something waiting to break. It felt private.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Not publicly all right. Not properly dressed and managing everybody else’s reaction. Something less useful. Something better.

“Yes,” she said. “Actually all right.”

* * *

Celia woke to sunlight, Gavin’s warm arm across her waist and the conviction that she had failed to attend something important. She stared at the clock.

Nine twenty-three.

“I have missed smoko.”

Gavin opened one eye. “Did you promise to attend?”

“No.”

“Then you declined it retrospectively.”

“That is not how time works.”

“It has worked beautifully so far.”

Her telephone was still in the kitchen drawer. Celia put on her robe and went downstairs to determine whether Rosehill had survived.

The front door remained locked. No emergency note had been pushed beneath it and nobody had climbed through a window to request her judgement on chair placement. When she switched on her telephone, Judith’s message appeared first.

The gathering went well. Nothing requires your attention this morning.

Beryl reported that the urn had leaked but caused no injuries. On the Community Thread, somebody had asked:

ARE CELIA AND GAVIN EXPECTED AT SMOKO?

The moderator replied:

They are adults. Their absence is not an emergency.

Perhaps they are sleeping.

That received eleven approving reactions and one disapproving face, almost certainly from Beryl. Arthur Bell added:

Smoko proceeded without them. Recovery is expected.

Beryl confirmed that six chairs remained near the urn.

Celia laughed. Rosehill had noticed, of course, but nobody had followed Gavin’s vehicle, taken a photograph or turned their absence into an accusation. The boundary had held.

Rosehill had survived smoko. Celia had survived missing it.

The stairs creaked. Gavin entered the kitchen wearing his trousers and carrying his unbuttoned shirt.

“You have not dressed,” Celia said.

“I have begun.” He glanced at the telephone. “How bad is it?”

“Beryl’s urn leaked.”

“Christ.”

“There were no injuries.”

“Thank God.”

“Smoko proceeded without us.”

Gavin placed one hand over his heart. “Brave people.” He opened the correct cupboard and began measuring coffee as though he intended to do it again.

“You are very comfortable,” Celia said.

“Should I be uncomfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Then I have chosen wisely.”

He stepped closer. Celia placed one hand against his chest. The Thread notification sounded. Neither of them looked at the telephone.

“Stay for breakfast,” she said.

“I thought I already was.”

“You were presuming. Now you have been invited.”

“Formally?”

“No.”

She turned the telephone facedown and kissed him. His hands settled at her waist as the robe opened between them.

“Breakfast,” she reminded him when his mouth moved beneath her ear.

“Yes.”

“You are not making it.”

“No.”

“Neither am I.”

“Then we have reached agreement.”

Outside, a vehicle passed without slowing. Somewhere on Rosehill, six chairs remained near an unreliable urn and smoko continued under altered but apparently survivable conditions.

“We should eat,” Celia said.

“We should.”

Neither moved. She glanced towards the stairs. Gavin followed her gaze.

“You said breakfast.”

“It will still be breakfast later.”

“That is not how time works.”

Celia smiled. “It has worked beautifully so far.” She took his hand and led him out of the kitchen. The scandal was over, smoko had survived and for the first time in weeks, Celia had no interest in being where Rosehill expected her to be.

Thank you for reading

Continue the Island Hours series with book 2 The Last Ferry Home.

Nobody Else’s Business

I hope you've enjoyed spending this time with Celia and Gavin.

Nobody Else’s Business the bonus chapter begins immediately after the events of the book, when they are finally hoping to claim one private evening without Rosehill interfering.

Of course, Rosehill has other ideas.

Read your exclusive bonus chapter below.

Feel free to subscribe to the Eliza Flint Readers Inner Circle while you're here!