Naughty Brits: An Anthology

by Sarah MacLean

  I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Sure. I’m open to finding someone,” he admitted.

  I narrowed my gaze on him, assessing for sincerity. He glanced at me and gave me a casual smile and then looked straight ahead again.

  Unease shivered down my spine. Who was this guy? A unicorn?

  I should probably stop talking to him now. The more we talked the more attractive he was becoming, and he was already too attractive.

  I turned in the seat, rolling toward the window as much as my seat belt would allow. “I think I’m still jetlagged.” I tucked my hand under my cheek.

  “Take a nap.”

  I didn’t know how it had come to pass that in so short a time this man had my trust, but he did. He had it. His gentleness after my nightmare combined with his alert, smooth handling of the guy at my signing put me at ease.

  I could relax in the seat next to him and give over control. When was the last time I could say that about a man? I winced. I’m not sure any of my exes had ever had that much of my trust. I’d married them full of hope, searching for something more. Something I never found. Something that didn’t exist.

  It was probably the whole bodyguard thing. Moretti gave off an aura of capability. That was his job. I’m sure it wasn’t anything about him specifically. What did I know about him anyway except that he was yummy enough to star as the next James Bond?

  I closed my eyes against the darkening landscape, lulled into a sense a security. I suppose that was the point. His reason for being here with me was to keep me safe. That was his job. Just a job.

  A necessary reminder. It wasn’t anything real.

  Chapter Seven

  “Hello. You should have a room under V.M. Mathers.” I propped my handbag on the reception desk and pulled out my identification for the front desk clerk.

  “Of course, Ms. Mathers.” Her gaze skipped appraisingly to Moretti beside me before looking back to her computer screen. “Ah, there you are. One king bed.”

  One king bed? I hesitated. “Uh. Is there an adjoining room for . . . ” My hand gestured vaguely to Moretti. I didn’t even know what to call him. I should have asked for his first name in the car ride. I couldn’t make myself spit out the word ‘bodyguard.’ It stuck in my throat. And he certainly wasn’t my significant other. He wasn’t my anything.

  He decided to speak up then. “An adjoining room should have been added to the reservation.”

  The clerk shifted her mouse and clicked a few more times. “Ah. I see in the notes there was a request for an adjoining room should one come available.”

  I shook my head weakly. “Should?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry we could not accommodate that request. There are several festivals and conferences in town.” She gestured around them, encompassing the bustling lobby. “We have no more rooms available.”

  I could only stare in disbelief, my mind working, wondering what came next. Certainly my publisher did not intend for me to have to share a room with the man they had hired for my protection. That was ridiculous and the height of inappropriateness.

  Not to mention way, way too tempting.

  I looked to Moretti. “Should we find another hotel?”

  Before he could answer, the clerk spoke up. “Oh, I’m afraid it is the same everywhere. The book festival has all the hotels full up. You won’t be able to find a room anywhere else in the city.” She smiled gently to lessen the bite of this news.

  As I stood staring unseeingly at her, grappling with this information, Moretti spoke up again. “Thank you.” He extended his arm past me, accepting the key cards. Not that we would need two cards because he would never leave my side, apparently. He sent me a reassuring glance. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  A combination of relief and disappointment spiraled through me. I bit my lip, confused at the conflicting emotions.

  He gathered up our luggage, motioning with his head that we should proceed to the elevator. The clerk had not been exaggerating. It was a busy weekend, if the crowd was any indication. A horseshoe-shaped bar lined one side of the lobby and people milled around it, drinking and socializing. The buzz of conversation and laughter broke through my daze.

  I assumed some of these people were here for the book festival, too. If I was feeling more adventurous, I might go mingle and learn if any of them were authors, too. My small town didn’t have any writers in it, unfortunately. Bigger cities had strong writing communities, but it wasn’t something I’d had the pleasure of enjoying before.

  I sent a furtive glance to the hulking man beside me. How would I explain his presence? I guess I needed to figure out something as he would be lurking about tomorrow, a permanent shadow beside me.

  I sighed. It had been a long day. My nap had been less than restful. I was still tired and could happily crawl into bed and sleep for a decade. I just wanted to take a shower and go to sleep, so I would be ready for the festival in the morning.

  Of course, there was still the unresolved matter of our sleeping arrangements. It was going to be awkward with him sleeping on the floor. I winced. Maybe I could call down for a cot, because we were definitely not sharing a bed.

  That was one of the perks of a divorce—of being alone. I never had to share a bed with anyone again. Any bed I slept in, I could stretch out in luxury. I never had to endure someone farting or snoring next to me or reeking of garlic when he decided to eat an entire roasted bulb of it.

  We had to stand in line and wait for the elevator. I swung my bag in front of my body, hugging it as though it could shield me. We waited in silence. I rocked on my heels amid the surrounding revelry.

  “After you.” Moretti motioned me inside the elevator.

  We crowded in with the other guests, waiting in silence and getting off on our floor with another couple who had clearly been drinking. They spoke to each other in French and walked arm in arm in an unsteady line ahead of us. It was hard not to focus on the amorous couple, especially the way the guy slid his hand under his companion’s skirt.

  My face burned, and I was grateful to reach our room. Moretti used the key card and opened the door for us. I walked in past him and turned to hold it open for him as he carried in our luggage.

  I moved inside and the door clicked shut after us. I turned in a small circle, examining our accommodations. “Not very . . . spacious.”

  “No. It’s not.” He tossed my suitcase onto the small luggage stand.

  I moved to the nightstand and lifted the phone, calling the front desk. Someone answered on the second ring.

  “Hi, I was hoping someone could send a roll-away cot to our room.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. Those have already all been claimed for the night.”

  Disappointment sank through me. “Oh. Thank you.” I hung up and forced my gaze back on him.

  “Let me guess. None available.”

  I nodded.

  “Not a problem. I can sleep on the floor.”

  I know I had that thought earlier, but it just seemed . . . harsh. “That can’t be very comfortable.”

  I hated the thought of that. “I’ve slept on hard ground plenty of nights. The floor isn’t going to hurt me for one night.”

  The tiny room felt charged with the two of us in it. The bed dominated the room and there really wasn’t much space around it.

  “Do you need to use the bathroom? I’d like to shower.” I moved to unzip my suitcase.

  “I’m fine. If you don’t mind, I’ll just borrow one of your pillows.” He brushed against me as he stepped forward to lift one of the pillows off the bed. I sucked in a sharp breath.

  He dropped it on the flat carpet near the window. There would be just enough room for him to stretch out between the wall and the side of the bed.

  Sighing, I snatched up the pillow and tossed it back on the bed. “You can’t sleep on a hotel floor. That’s just gross.”

  I wouldn’t sleep a wink with his huge, hard body heating up our shared sheets, but I didn�
�t want to seem like a princess, either. Inviting him to share the bed was just the right thing to do.

  He shook his head and stretched a hand for the pillow. “My job is to protect you. Keep you safe. Making you uncomfortable is not part—”

  I grabbed his wrist, stalling him. “Safety is just a construct. Nothing is ever safe.”

  His eyes snapped to my face. “If that were true, I would be in a different line of work.” His gaze moved over my face as the air crackled between us. God. Could this room be any smaller?

  “You’re my bodyguard. We’re both adults who can control ourselves. I think I can trust you not to pounce on me. I’ll sleep under the covers. You sleep on top.”

  His gaze dropped from my face to my hand on his arm. I followed his gaze, seeing my fingers not quite wrapped around his wrist. His wrist was too large for that. I snatched my hand away. It was bad enough standing this close to him. I could hardly breathe in such proximity. I didn’t need to put hands on him, too.

  “I’m going to shower now.” I gathered my things from my suitcase.

  I deliberately didn’t look in his direction as I moved into the bathroom. Closing the door, I flipped on the switch. Blinding fluorescent lighting flooded the small space. I turned on the water and faced my reflection in the mirror as I waited for it to warm up.

  I brushed at the small smudges of purple under my eyes. The last few weeks had been one great big push: flying from city to city, event to event. It was a lot. Especially for someone who was accustomed to working from home. I’d quit my job when I signed my contract and knew I had a sizable advance coming. I could always go back to my job as a technical writer if my book-writing career tapered.

  I kept my own hours. Slept as late as I wanted. Took naps. Binged Netflix. Walked my dog and worked on the draft of my next writing project at my own leisure. This breakneck pace was an adjustment.

  I turned from the mirror and stripped off my clothes. The water was warm enough by now. Steam filled up the bathroom and fogged up the mirror. I stepped beneath the warm spray, ducking my head under the water. I let the liquid warmth wash over me, melting into my muscles and bones. I don’t know how long I stood like that, but eventually I lifted my head and forced myself to start washing my body and shampooing my hair.

  Turning off the shower, I reached for a towel and wrapped it around my head. Grabbing a second towel, I stepped out and dried off briskly. I’d been in here so long he was probably already asleep. There was that at least. No more awkward confrontations tonight.

  I slipped my nightie over my head, wishing I had brought something else to sleep in—something more modest, something that fell a little longer than mid-thigh. Then again, I had never planned on sharing my hotel room with anyone.

  I finished my bedtime ritual, brushing my hair and teeth and moisturizing my face. I eased open the bathroom door, mindful of its squeak so that I didn’t wake him if he was sleeping already.

  I didn’t have anything to fear, though. He was awake, reclining on the top of the bed, ankles crossed casually as he read.

  My gaze landed on the familiar book in his hands and my chest seized. My book. He had somehow gotten a copy of my book.

  Damn it. He was reading my book and he was more than halfway through it.

  I pointed at the book in his hands as though he were holding a crack pipe. “W-where did you get that?” And how had he already read so much of it? God. He was well past chapter eight. “When did you start it?” We had been practically inseparable. When could have had time to read?

  He set the book down and looked at me with a thoughtful gaze. “I got it as soon as I was assigned to protect you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. It was short notice—”

  “Melani mentioned that.”

  “Yes. I would have been finished otherwise.”

  “No problem,” I said a little breathlessly. “Kind of you to . . . even read it.”

  He propped himself up on an elbow, looking so very relaxed and at ease in the bed we would share. “So when you said ‘a woman does not need a man for sexual fulfillment’ what you really meant is that a man never gave you sexual fulfillment.”

  I was well aware of what I had written in that book—that in its pages I had shared that I, a woman of thirty-four, had never experienced an orgasm with any of my past sexual partners.

  His dark eyes stared at me, waiting.

  I swallowed against the giant lump in my throat and glanced around somewhat wildly. Had this room become even smaller? It felt as though it were only him . . . and me . . . and the bed. I gulped a breath. There was not enough air.

  He continued in the face of my silence, “Have I made you uncomfortable? I’m sorry. I did not realize.” He motioned to the book in his hand. “You spoke so openly today, and you write so candidly on the matter.”

  “On the matter of my sex life?” I lifted my chin and reached for the covers, pulling them back on my side of the bed with efficient movements. “Yes. I have nothing to hide. I’ve bared my soul to the world. What’s so shocking is that world cares enough to read my book.” I faked nonchalance and shrugged. Inside I still trembled, feeling his dark stare on me . . . feeling that deep voice of his asking me his probing questions.

  “Oh, you’re a brilliant writer. Very entertaining. Witty.”

  Heat crept up from my throat to my face, so flattered at the compliment. “Thank you.”

  “When I heard you speak today, I did not quite grasp your meaning.” He gave a small shake of his head. “It’s far too incredible. You’ve been married three times and none of your ex-husbands ever—”

  “That’s right,” I cut him off, bristling. For some reason I didn’t want to hear him say it. I admitted it all the time. In my book. At speaking engagements. It’s the reason so many men out there were offended. Well, insecure men were offended. It was as though in revealing this truth I was revealing something about them, too.

  But I didn’t want to hear it from him. It was somehow mortifying to hear the truth I lived fall from his lips.

  He shook his head. “You married some absolute tossers.”

  I blinked and gave a small surprised laugh. “I won’t argue that, but they can’t be blamed for physiology.”

  “That’s rubbish. A man worth anything can make his woman come.”

  I gasped at his bold language. And yet I felt those words. I felt them like velvet rubbing all along my skin. And I remembered how close I had been last night when we had been bumping and grinding in bed.

  I toyed with the edge of the sheets, still standing beside the bed. Nothing could prompt me to slide in beside him right now. Not while we were talking about things like coming.

  “It’s natural for you to think that way, but women are not often honest about this kind of thing. We’re sensitive to our partner’s feelings and often pretend we’ve orgasmed when, in fact, we have not.” I smiled down at him.

  He scowled. “Spare me your condescension. I can tell if a woman’s faking it or not.”

  I maintained my smile. “I’m sure.”

  Suddenly he smiled back at me. Only that beautiful smile was slight and pitying. “Poor girl. Have you never had a man bury his face between your thighs until you cry, laugh, and weep all at the same time?”

  I couldn’t breathe.

  “I know when it’s real,” he added with absolute conviction.

  I could only nod.

  “I’m sure you give yourself satisfying orgasms.” He lifted my book with a small wave in the air, and it irked me to hear my own words quoted back at me. “But I can do that too. I can do better than that. Anyone can make themselves come. But there’s something different—stronger, more intense—about not knowing when the next touch will land or what it will be like . . . soft or hard. Fast or slow.”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Not a sound. I was aroused. Aching and throbbing with arousal. His words alone had done that.

  We stared at each other in the
electric silence. My skin felt too tight for my body, vibrating and stretching over muscle and bones that felt suddenly as insubstantial as liquid.

  He set the book on the nightstand and rose from the bed. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get ready for bed.”

  He gathered a few items from his bag and was halfway to the bathroom when he paused to look back at me. In the swirling tension, he suggested, “Perhaps I should sleep on the floor. I’m sure it’s the most comfortable scenario—”

  “Don’t be silly. It can’t be comfortable.”

  “I wasn’t speaking of physical comfort.”

  “Oh.” Ohhh. He meant it was gonna be super awkward sharing a bed.

  Of course that was true. The fact that his words had sent my body into a rage of arousal definitely made things more awkward. At least for me. But I didn’t expect him to know that. I could barely admit it in my own head. I was determined to keep it to myself. No way would I reveal it to him.

  He would not learn of his effect on me. I’d penned a memoir on the theme of self-reliance and female autonomy and here I was all hot and bothered and . . . needy. No. I would not cave to these feelings.

  I pulled back the covers and slid beneath them. “Don’t worry about it. I’m so tired. I’ll be asleep before you even get out of the bathroom.” I settled down on my side, hugging the mattress’s edge. “This bed is big. I won’t even know you’re beside me.”

  “All right.” He nodded perfunctorily and disappeared inside the bathroom.

  The door clicked after him and the air left me in a whoosh. I rubbed a hand over my face. “God save me,” I muttered. Let my words be true. Let me fall asleep so quickly I didn’t even have to know he was in the bed with me.

  Of course that didn’t happen.

  I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I was keenly sensitive to every sound he made on the other side of that door. The running shower. The squeak of the sink’s faucet. The faint scrubbing of bristles on his teeth. The clink of his toothbrush on the basin as he shook it clean.