Naughty Brits: An Anthology

by Sarah MacLean

  “I just want a long hot shower and room service.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “You don’t want to go to the party?”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s been a long day. Room service and watching TV sounds wonderful to me.”

  “If that’s what you want,” he said slowly, and I didn’t care for that.

  It made him sound in service to me and subject to my whims, which he was. But after last night . . . his role here with me had become a bit confusing. It was a little less clear now, and I guess that was my fault. The moment I opened my mouth and invited him to prove his orgasm-giving prowess I had thrown everything into chaos.

  “I would like it, yes.” I turned off the stage and he fell in beside me as we headed out of the amphitheater into the evening. We located the car and I settled back in for the drive to the hotel. It had been a long day, and I was looking forward to staying in for the evening.

  Watching his hands on the steering wheel made me think of those hands on me. I wanted to feel those hands on me again. Especially on the places he had not yet touched.

  I wanted to get naked with him, and, more importantly, I wanted him naked with me.

  It was enough to give me heart palpitations. I needed to compose myself. This wasn’t a fling. Last night had simply been an enjoyable experiment. He’d been down for it, but in no way had he indicated he wanted anything more. And he worked for me . . . sort of. Was that weird? I didn’t want to make him feel like I was taking advantage of him in this situation.

  The hotel lobby was bustling when we arrived. We rode up the crowded elevator to our room, neither one of us speaking. I needed that. Awkward or not, I needed silence to help me compose myself.

  We arrived in the room and I kicked off my shoes, dropping my handbag in the chair. “I’m going to take a shower.” Escaping under a hot spray of water sounded perfect. “You want to order us dinner?” I asked as I fumbled inside my luggage, gathering some clothes. I avoided my nightie, settling on a T-shirt and shorts.

  He moved to the nightstand and picked up the menu. “What would you like?”

  “You choose. I love all food.”

  He nodded and opened up the tri-fold menu.

  I ducked into the bathroom. Turning the shower to hot, I quickly stripped off my clothes and then dove beneath the spray. After washing and shampooing, I flattened my palms against the tile and let the water beat down on my shoulders for a long time as I mulled over going back out there, to the place where I had finally achieved orgasm with another person. The room should be designated a historical landmark.

  Shutting off the shower, I stepped out and swiped the mirror clean of fog, the glass squeaking under my fingers. For a long moment I stared at my reflection. I looked like I did when I drank a few too many—brown eyes glassy and bright, cheeks flushed like I’d run a couple miles.

  I could go back out there, eat dinner, and watch TV and keep things one hundred percent above board. Strictly professional. At least as professional as things could be between two people sharing one bed.

  Or I could go back out there and get what I wanted. Which was more than room service. It was more of Luca Moretti.

  V.M Mathers, author of Self Love, was a woman who went after what she wanted. Sure, I could administer my own orgasms. Or I could achieve them by hooking up with a hot guy in a mutually beneficial and consensual way. Either one of those scenarios would be true to the spirit of my book—and to me.

  Nodding confidently, I reached for my clothes and then stopped. I should have gone with the nightie. Putting on a T-shirt and shorts did not spell sexy.

  Pulling my hand back I faced myself in the mirror again and readjusted the towel around me, re-knotting it less than securely above my breasts. If it happened to slip and fall, then oh well. It just might help move things along. Definitely not the end of the world.

  I stepped out into the hotel room, ready, and in full-on seduction mode.

  My gaze scanned the room. Food had been delivered and sat on a tray at the bottom of the bed. Luca was nowhere in sight.

  I moved toward the tray and lifted the lid to find a single plate of food. A meal for one. Not two. I lowered the lid. A quick glance around the room revealed no second tray. He had not eaten. And he had definitely left. He had left the room.

  My phone rang from inside my bag and I dug it out of my handbag. I answered the unknown number. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Mathers. I had to step away. I’ll be back. Promise me you won’t leave the room.” Ms. Mathers? That was some bit of nonsense. After where his hands and mouth had been the previous day, I thought we were beyond formalities. I had thought a lot of things, but I guess I was wrong about all of them.

  “I won’t.” I glanced to the tray. “Thanks for ordering me something to eat.”

  “Of course.”

  I flexed my fingers around the phone. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “I’ll get something. Now don’t leave the room and don’t answer the door.”

  I nodded as though he could see me. “Okay. I won’t.”

  The phone went dead, and I slowly lowered it back down. I stared at it for a moment in my hand, battling disappointment. I envisioned him somewhere else—in a restaurant or a bar getting something to eat. He probably needed a break from me. That was reasonable. He’d been with me practically twenty-four seven since we met.

  Going through the motions, I put my phone on the charger and turned on the TV, finding a show. It appeared to be a comedy, so I decided to leave it. Comedy was a good thing right now when I was feeling especially sorry for myself.

  Sorry because my plan to seduce my bodyguard met a dead end. I wouldn’t be enjoying his lips on my lips or anywhere else.

  I settled on the bed with my food, glad that he hadn’t ordered me anything like a salad. I savored the first bite of my fish and chips and focused on the antics playing out on the TV screen.

  I finished my food and dressed in the T-shirt and shorts I had originally planned to wear before I had sexy goals. I slid into bed, wondering what was keeping him out even as I told myself it didn’t matter. Message received. Last night was a one-time thing.

  I dozed off with the TV on, its soft blue glow pervading the room as sounds of laughter from the studio audience lulled me to sleep.

  I didn’t know how long I slept, but it was disconcertingly dark and silent when I suddenly woke. Propping up on an elbow, I searched the lightless room, orienting myself. It was momentarily bewildering. For a moment I searched for the familiarity of my own bedroom, for the sounds and smells of home, but then I recalled that I wasn’t in my home. I was on book tour. I was in Edinburgh. I’d fallen asleep watching TV.

  Stretching out my arm, I stroked the space beside me. Empty. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t back yet. Then who turned the TV off?

  I reached for my phone and tapped on it so that I had enough light to scan the room and locate him sleeping in the chair. I quickly killed the light and settled back in the bed as quietly as possible, intent on not waking him.

  I inhaled and exhaled slowly. He’d returned and opted to sleep in a chair rather than with me again. He was sleeping in a chair. Rather than with me.

  It was a definite reality check. Last night had been fun, but he wasn’t here to be my fun. He was here to do a job. That was it.

  Chapter Ten

  The drive back to London was even quieter than the drive to Edinburgh. We returned to the previous hotel and this time there was no mix up and no over-crowded hotel. We again had adjoining rooms. Not the same room on the fifth floor but an identical room on the seventh floor.

  I watched as Luca carried my luggage into one bedroom . . . and then he took his bag into the other bedroom. He would not have to suffer spending the night in a chair again. He’d be in his own room and his own bed. All for the best. For obvious reasons.

  He was my bodyguard. There was no relationship beyond that. I’d be on a plane in two days. A swift little pang resulted from
that thought, which was entirely inappropriate. I wasn’t in junior high, nursing a crush on someone after knowing him for only two days. I was not a raging ball of hormones letting my vagina lead me. Really. I wasn’t.

  He returned from his room and conducted his familiar inspection. Watching him close the drapes was like déjà vu from the first night. I smiled slightly.

  Satisfied, he stopped in front of me. He studied me with an inscrutable gaze. “Your schedule is open until tomorrow night.”

  “The gala. Yes.” I nodded.

  “Was there anything you wanted to see tomorrow before the gala?”

  I perked up. “As in sightseeing? That wouldn’t be too awful for you?”

  “I can bear it,” he said rather gruffly. “What’s on your list?”

  Everything.

  Smiling widely, the sleeping arrangements bothered me less now. Bothered? Yeah. I guess there was no denying it. I was bothered that there was once again appropriate and proper distance between us. That was some irony—and kind of messed up. When I first learned we had to share a bedroom I had been horrified. Now it bothered me that we were not sharing a bed? I gave my head a swift shake.

  “I pretty much want to see everything,” I admitted with a little laugh.

  “Ah. We might not get to everything, but we could get an early start in the morning and try to get in as much as we can before the gala tomorrow night.” He broke our stare, looking away, down at the floor, at the wall—anywhere but me. A deep breath lifted his chest as though he was collecting himself. As though he needed more air around me, and I understood that. I never felt like I could catch my breath around him.

  I nodded again, just once. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you.“

  I didn’t move. Didn’t act or, as usual, breathe.

  He lifted his gaze back to me and there was such simmering heat there that I felt ensnared, caught, suspended . . . in a state of strange limbo as I looked from his eyes to his mouth and then back to his eyes again. Looking at his wide mouth, at those beautifully carved lips, I couldn’t stop thinking that I should know them. I should have kissed him.

  I hovered as though this were a turning point. A pivot in which something would happen. Or nothing at all—and I guessed that in this case nothing was something.

  I motioned to the small sitting area with its couch and TV. “Did you want to watch a movie? Order a pizza?”

  He took a step forward and then stopped, glancing to the couch and then back to his bedroom, and I knew then. His hands flexed at his sides, opening and closing several times before at last falling open.

  Nothing was going to happen. We would each go to our separate beds tonight. I would not know his lips on mine. There would be no kissing. There would be nothing.

  Nothing.

  I felt the disappointment keenly and a sigh welled up, easing out from me. I needed to stop throwing myself at him like something would happen. He didn’t want me.

  “You know, on second thought,” I said, giving us both a way out from this awkward situation. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow. I’m still pretty full from lunch.”

  “You sure?” His gaze searched my face.

  “Yes.” It had been hours since we’d eaten lunch, but food didn’t seem as important as closing myself up in the privacy of my room. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night, Ms. Mathers.”

  I was Ms. Mathers again. If I had any doubt that he was determined to put us back in our roles of specialist and principal it was gone.

  “How did you come to be such a Sherlock Holmes fan?” Luca asked as he handed me my phone after taking another picture of me in front of the Sherlock Holmes Museum. I had Luca snap pictures of me as we visited the sights throughout the morning. It was all terribly touristy of me, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “Would you like me to take a picture of you both?” a lady asked, motioning to my phone.

  “I . . . uh—” I looked uncertainly to Luca.

  “Thank you. Yes.” He handed the woman my phone.

  Luca took me by the elbow and positioned us in front of the black wrought iron fence surrounding the quaint façade of the museum. It took everything in me not to stare at him standing so closely beside me. His broad hand settled against the small of my back and I sucked in a breath at the immediate zing of electricity radiating from that point of contact. I forced my gaze ahead, smiling at the woman snapping our picture.

  “Brilliant,” she announced. “You’re a lovely couple.”

  My face burned as Luca stepped forward, thanking her and reclaiming my phone.

  I nodded my thanks and took my phone back from Luca. I glanced down at the photo and felt a strange flutter in my chest at the sight of us, standing so close. Even Luca was smiling, as handsome as any movie star.

  I swiped the screen and realized she had taken more than one photo. She’d caught one of me staring at Luca and I looked utterly mesmerized. There it was. Evidence of my enchantment. I should delete it and yet I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t bring myself to erase any image of the two of us.

  Closing my phone, I slipped it into my pocket, determined to keep it and study it more later. At least I would have these photos. Proof that this had happened, that I was not as jaded as I had thought myself to be. That maybe I was open to the idea of romance and love in my life, after all.

  “Are they all right?” he inquired.

  I smiled and nodded a little too eagerly. “Great.”

  I didn’t need him to see them. One glance of me looking at him so longingly and he would know of my infatuation. I’d keep that picture for my eyes alone.

  We fell in step together on the sidewalk. “You were telling me how you came to be such a Sherlock Holmes fan,” he reminded.

  “Oh. Right. Well, I love all things Sherlock Holmes . . . those books got me through some days.”

  “Really?”

  “It launched me into all things mystery. Agatha Christie, Truman Capote. My small town librarian kept me well supplied. Thankfully the library was in walking distance. Books were my friends . . . and they kept me sane. What about you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As a kid . . . what was your thing?”

  “Oh.” He blinked. “Sports mostly. I ran track. Played whatever was in season.”

  “Of course,” I said teasingly.

  “I had a lot of mates on my street. We were our own football team.”

  “Football as in . . . soccer?”

  He sent me a reproving look. “Of course.”

  I nodded with a smile and burrowed a little deeper into my sweater.

  “Cold?” he asked, gripping the edge of his jacket as though prepared to remove it for me.

  “I’m fine,” I assured him. “I love this weather. Back home it’s still ninety-five degrees right now. You wouldn’t know it’s fall at all. I’ve always wanted to live someplace with cool weather. Somewhere with an actual winter.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “Uh.” I blinked. “I don’t know. I’ve always lived in Arkansas.”

  “Well, do you have to?”

  “No. I don’t. I can live anywhere . . . write from anywhere, I guess.”

  I really could. I’d considered it before. The idea had been there, niggling at the back of my mind since my divorce. It just meant gathering my courage and leaving. Picking someplace else to live and settling down there.

  We continued down the sidewalk. After a few moments, he asked. “So you read all things mystery and yet you don’t write mystery?”

  I shrugged with a little laugh. “I always thought about writing a mystery. Never seemed to find the time.” I definitely never had encouragement from any of my exes. They didn’t understand any endeavor that took attention away from them, let alone one where I didn’t get a paycheck up front.

  “You wrote a memoir though . . . when you did find the time.”

  “Yeah. Funny, right? I
guess I had something else I wanted to say.” Something I needed to say.

  “And what’s next for you? Anything else you want to say?”

  “Hm.” I angled my head thoughtfully. “That’s what everyone keeps asking me.” My editors. My agent. Not Mom, though. She kept begging me to say nothing more. To keep my opinions to myself.

  We fell silent for a few moments, walking side by side. “That’s a lot of pressure,” he volunteered as we stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the pedestrian light to change.

  “It can be.”

  “Don’t let it.

  “I beg your pardon?

  “Don’t let it be a pressure.”

  I considered him sharply. A chill wind tousled his dark hair.

  It was always easier for someone else to tell you that. Don’t stress. Don’t worry. Don’t feel pressured. Easier said than done.

  ”What am I supposed to do then? Never write anything again?”

  “Yeah. Well. Do you have to?” He lifted a hand out of his pocket and waved it vaguely. “It seems like you’ve done very well for yourself. Do you need to write another book if you don’t want to?”

  The light turned and we started across the street. My sneaker caught on the uneven surface of the street, and I stumbled. His hand reached out to grasp my elbow.

  “No one has ever suggested that to me before.” No one ever told me I could just . . . stop. “Well. Except for my mother. But her reasons and motivation are entirely different.”

  He was coming from some place entirely altruistic. He was being thoughtful and thinking about me . . . about what I might need and want.

  “Something to consider. Cut yourself a break. Don’t do anything unless you feel an overwhelming urge and desire to do it.”

  “Is that how you live?” I blurted. “You only do what you want?”

  He stopped and faced me. “If it doesn’t hurt anyone. Yes. I do what I want.”

  The air crackled between us. His gaze dropped to my mouth, and I felt certain in that moment that he wanted to kiss me. That he was going to kiss me. Finally. His brown eyes seemed to darken, his pupils indiscernible from the irises of his eyes.