by Monica James
His handlebar moustache twitches. Oh, we are so in.
“Come on, let us in.”
He folds his bulky arms and gestures with his head. “You can wait at the back of the line like everyone else.”
I see what he’s doing. He needs to retrieve his pride. I need to see London, like right now, so he can beat his chest and whip out his dick another time. “Or”—I lean over the rope, invading his personal space—“I could just stay out here and annoy you until you let me in. Do you know I have an uncanny ability to remember every scene to The Notebook? Frame by frame. It begins with Noah…”
“Okay, enough.” He reaches for the rope and snaps it open, allowing us entry. Sucker. If only every male embraced the movie as we all know they secretly want to, then they’d be safe from blackmail.
Chloe giggles as I walk past him slowly, trying my best not to act drunk.
“My name is Manny,” he corrects with a smirk.
“I was close, and besides, Mango suits you better.” His colleague snuffles a hoarse chuckle behind his hand.
Before he has a chance to change his mind, we quickly scamper into the bar, and holy shit, it’s packed full. A sense of pride fills me because this is London’s doing. His bar kicks ass. It especially kicks ass when “Pour some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard blares over the speakers.
Chloe and I saunter toward the bar in time with the rock music, laughing and acting like complete idiots. However, when I see a lush head of jet black hair, my high instantly nosedives.
“Oh, fuck, she’s here,” I whisper into Chloe’s ear, nudging my head as discreetly as I can toward Sandy.
Chloe follows my line of sight and scrunches up her nose. “Someone needs to tell her she forgot to put on pants.”
She’s in her infamous skimpy shorts and cropped tank which shows off way too much midriff. She’s leaning over the bar, her collagen-infused lips smirking at some patron who is clearly checking out her boobs.
As much as it pains me to admit, she is pretty in a dominatrix sort of way. My stomach churns when I think of her possession over London. She told me that London was her man. I feel my forehead. Is it suddenly really hot in here?
“Let’s go.” I attempt to run the way I came, but Chloe grabs my arm. Just as I’m about to protest, she leads me through the masses and toward the center of the dance floor by the small red stage and shiny stripper pole.
“Oh, no,” I argue, digging in my heels. But she’s suddenly turned into Hercules, and I don’t stand a chance.
The bar is sexy and sassy, and this stripper pole adds to that appeal. No one is drunk enough to be gyrating on the pole just yet, and everyone, bar Chloe, seems content to dance around the raised platform. She hauls me onto the red velvet carpet, laughing when I bump into the pole and, ironically enough, grab it voluntarily so I don’t fall onto my ass.
I feel so out of place.
Peering around from left to right, I realize I shouldn’t be up here as I’m utterly wasted and it’s probably not a good look that London’s girlfr—
I promptly put an end to that thought because what exactly am I to London?
Girlfriend? Lover? Friend?
What’s the suitable term to describe what we are?
Girlfriend seems so juvenile especially after everything we’ve been through. While partner sounds so established as though we’ve been together for years. Besides, shouldn’t there be a period of mourning my previous relationship before I go labeling the next?
Just as I’m about to jump off the stage, Chloe leaps in front of me. “Go team! Go team! Who do we mean?”
My mouth gapes open. “You didn’t?”
She nods and begins stepping side to side with an overzealous clap. “Go Panthers! We’re steppin’ up, so step aside!” When she waves her imaginary pom poms, I almost choke on my laughter.
Chloe and I were never cool enough to be cheerleaders, but here we stand, about to change history.
She is exceptionally talented as she wiggles and moves just how a cheerleader would. I follow suit and raise my arms high, shaking my make-believe pom poms as we chant our high school anthem.
Suddenly, we’re back at Harvard-Westlake, standing in front of all the cool kids, butchering their song. We’re in royal blue skirts with yellow trim, shaking our booties without a care in the world.
“If only our head cheerleader, Courtney Fletcher, could see us now.” Chloe screams to be heard over the music as we swivel our hips. I can only imagine what we look like to onlookers, but I’m having too much fun to care.
We bump shoulders before mimicking a poor version of their high V move. We continue singing at the top of our lungs, laughing uncontrollably as we make up our own words. “Ready? Okay! I’m sexy and fun…”
“I’m also really dumb,” I add in a high-pitched melody, batting my eyelashes.
A small crowd has formed in front of us as we continue our chants, bumping hips and high-fiving one another. I’m impressed as we somehow manage to orchestrate a quick hand-clapping sequence, before adding a turn.
The mob claps in time with our dance moves, spurring us on as we turn our backs and give a little shimmy. I’m giggling hysterically, having the time of my life, so when Chloe jumps in the air, I don’t give it a second thought as I leap high, cheering in delight when I touch my toes. The dismount was perfect; sadly however, Coach would be disappointed with my landing because I forgot I’m in five-inch heels.
A winded squeal leaves me as I attempt to stop myself from face planting and breaking my ankle at the same time. Everything happens so fast. One minute, I’m attempting to balance midair, and the next, my blurred world is tipped on its axis—literally.
My clouded brain plays catch-up, and I see that I’m upside down.
“What the hell?” I cuss, a hiccup escaping me as I attempt to wriggle free, but a firm smack on my ass has me yelping.
Everything passes by in a blur, but the overall vibe I get is that people are laughing at my current predicament. Cursing all the booze in the world and my sudden need to live out my cheerleader dreams, I realize someone’s thrown me over their shoulder and I’m being carried through the bar.
“Put me down!” I pound on their lower back, certain this maniac is moments away from throwing me into his van and driving me to Mexico. “You’ll regret this!”
But when a deep rumble burrows a hole straight through me, I know I’m at his complete mercy. “On the contrary, I don’t regret a thing…Princess.”
How is it possible a single word can send my senses into overdrive? But in reality, it’s his voice, his smell, the feel of his body pressed to mine that has me biting my lip to stifle a moan because, regardless of all the above, I won’t have London manhandling me.
“You will change your tune when you let me go,” I counter, squealing when he fakes dropping me.
Asshole.
Patrons happily step aside, tilting their head to the side to witness the troublemaker, who would be me. London has a firm grip around me, so I don’t have any hope of breaking free. All I can do is hold on.
When we pass the bar, however, and I see Sandy glaring at the spectacle before tossing the dishcloth into the sink and storming off, I can’t shake my satisfaction. She wasn’t particularly nice to me when I was here last, so this is karma at its best.
When he turns left and walks us down the long hallway, it appears history is repeating itself because this is the same corridor he carried me down when I injured my ankle. A group of girls who are in line for the bathroom look at me, suppressing their giggles behind their palms.
The sight gives me an idea. “Oh my god,” I gasp, melodramatically. “I’m going to be sick. Yup, vomit, everywhere.”
London quickens his steps, and before I know it, he opens a door, and I’m inside what looks to be a small office. It could be a pizza shop for all I know, though, because I’m still upside down. He swiftly slams my ass onto the desk, before lunging for the trash can.
It t
akes my fried brain a moment as the world is unsteady, but when I come to, a smirk tugs at my lips. I jump up and make a mad dash for the door. “Such a chump,” I tsk, but London foils my escape plan when he plants himself in front of the door with a smirk.
“Haven’t you got anything better to do than be a major pain in my ass?” I talk big and attempt to project that courage, but when I miss my hip as I try to place my hand on it, London arches a brow.
So busted.
“Are you drunk?” he asks, a glimmer to his blue eyes.
I scoff, playing it off, but in turn, I’ve just confirmed his claims. Regardless of the room spinning, I pull back my shoulders and try my hardest to focus on a blurry London. “Drunk? Please. What makes you say that?” I try this sobriety test on for size as I commence a slow walk toward an unmoving London.
“The fact you’re talking to my filing cabinet might be a good start.”
What?
Concentrating as I tongue the corner of my mouth, I see that he is right. Shit. When did this happen? I must have swayed a little too far to the right.
Rerouting, I close an eye and focus on London. He is always a vision, but holy shit, has he always been this…hot? He is rugged, radiating unadulterated sex as he stands rigid with those muscular arms folded tightly across that carved chest.
I’m devouring him whole, but sweet baby Jesus, those tattoos, that dirty blond hair, that hungry look in his eyes have me thumbing my bottom lip as I continue my appraisal. Even though it’s covered, I zero in on the tattoo over his heart.
On instinct, I rub my legs together. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed by London.
He stands motionless, allowing me to visually molest him, but the crackle in the air hints at what’s lingering over the horizon. I grip the edge of the desk, afraid my drunken state will affect my balance, but this time, I’m drunk on London—the most potent drink of all.
He reaches behind him slowly. A shiver courses through me at the sound of the lock clicking into place. I’m in so much trouble.
“So any particular reason you’re out celebrating? By the shaking of those pom poms, I dare say there is much to celebrate,” my quarterback asks.
My cheeks flush a deep red as he clearly saw me busting a move. “I’m happy,” I confess, thankful I find my voice. He waits for me to continue. “Even though Lincoln left town, and I don’t really know what comes next with him, having you here with me doesn’t make that fact so scary. And I spoke to my mom about you. She knows how I feel.”
“And how did that go?” His worry is apparent, so I immediately put his mind at ease.
“Good, actually. I think you might have scored an invite to dinner.”
“What?” Seeing London caught off guard is a beautiful thing. He is so vulnerable, his self-doubt exposed because no matter how much confidence he exudes, when it comes to me, he’s always holding his breath.
Nodding, I saunter toward him, uncaring of the wobble to my step because this time, it’s not simply the alcohol affecting my walk. “You’re important to me, so you’re important to her.”
“And your dad?”
“He’ll come around,” I reply with confidence as I come to a stop a few feet away. “Now I suppose we have your family to deal with, but one step at a time, right?”
The thought of his mom and when I saw her last will forever be carved into my memory because Kayla Sinclair is one of the only people in this world who scares me.
“Come here.” His command is spiked with promise, and I comply.
I close the distance between us. We’re almost chest to chest. Peering up at him from under my mascara-clad lashes, I await his next move.
Something is hypnotic about seeing London unmoving because I know there is so much materializing beneath the surface. My confession isn’t without gravity as this is big for us. One obstacle down, another hundred to go, but it’s progress nonetheless.
He reaches down and brushes the hair from my face, taking his time to skim his finger along the apple of my cheek. My body responds as it usually does—I want more. “Let me take you out on a date,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “In public. Where people can see us.”
His statement isn’t what I was expecting, but I suppose he’s right. We haven’t even had the morning-after talk, considering I was introduced to his daughter and my once best friend on the morning after.
Playing it off, I smirk. “You want to do normal couple things?”
My quip is meant to be filled with sass, but when those wicked lips tip into a wayward grin, I know I should have just kept my mouth shut. “That’s something we will never be.”
And he’s right. Who wants normal when we’ve got this.
“Things kind of escalated, and I’ve missed all the cute stuff.” His touch never wavers as he can’t seem to stop caressing me. My nose. My cheeks. My lips.
“Like?” I inquire, almost afraid to ask.
“Like if you still smell every flower you pass.” I gasp, not expecting him to be privy to my little secret. It’s true. I can’t help it. It seems a shame to simply pass such beauty without appreciating its perfume as well. “Or if you still step over every crack in the pavement.”
“London…” I can’t hide my utter surprise that he’s taken note of all these things when I didn’t think he noticed me at all.
“I saw you then, Princess. I see you now.” He leans in close, nudging his nose to mine.
Unforeseen tears spring to the surface because each moment spent with London has me realizing how much time we’ve wasted. “Yes, I would love to go out on a date with you.”
Something so juvenile has me choking back my tears.
“Good, because that wasn’t optional.” He inhales, taking in my essence. “You smell incredible. But this dress…” His hands skim down my body, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake.
Before I can question what exactly is wrong with my dress, he detours to my ass.
“Even though it looks absolutely amazing on…I think it’ll look a lot better off. Strip.”
“Wh-what?”
My drunken brain must have conjured up such mischief because that’s exactly what I wanted to do the moment I felt London’s body pressed to mine. However, when his fingers begin a slow walk up my back to undo the zipper, he makes it clear we’re on the same page.
I’m dizzy, heady with the promise of what comes next.
Once my zipper is halfway down my back, London utters, “Princess, I won’t ask again.”
God, he is so incredibly bossy, and I fucking love it. I’m usually the one calling the shots, but when it comes to this, I’m more than willing to surrender. Reaching behind me, I work the zipper the rest of the way down before shrugging out of the shoulders. The dress is splendidly tight, so I slowly peel it from my body. When my new black lace bra comes into view, London takes a step back, hissing low.
His response spurs me on, and I continue undressing.
When the dress pools at my feet, I step out of it. I’m now in only my underwear and five-inch gold heels. I await his next command.
“I believe you’re still dressed,” he says, his eyes alight.
My pearled nipples press against the transparent lace, confirming his claims. The clasp is at the front, so I reach up and unhook it. It pops free, and with a slow sweep, I push the lace aside, exposing my heavy breasts.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows deeply. He clearly likes what he sees.
I don’t feel objectified. I feel wanted. I feel loved. “Now what?” I whisper, standing utterly still.
My skin prickles in awareness when his gaze lands at the junction of my thighs. The atmosphere is electric, and if he doesn’t make a move this second, I’ll take matters into my own hands—literally.
He senses my train of thought and is on me before I can act. His lips seal over mine, kissing me with a desperate need. I can barely keep up with the fierce whip of his tongue. Even in heels, he’s taller than I am, towering o
ver me as he walks me backward until my ass hits the edge of his desk.
I sit on the hard surface as he kisses me ferociously, unable to catch my breath. I yank at his hair as our tongues clash in a kiss sure to leave me a needy mess. He drags me forward to press us front to front, but I want to feel him in the flesh, so I tug at the hem of his T-shirt.
I don’t have to ask twice.
We separate only long enough for him to reach behind him and jerk it off by the back of the collar. Once he’s topless, he smashes his lips back on mine. His golden skin radiates a scorching warmth that shoots all the way to my toes.
I run my hands over his body, appreciating the longer locks of hair which curl at the back of his neck and the sharp slope to his upper shoulders and firm biceps. I can’t stop caressing him because the more of him I touch, the better it feels.
He fists my hair, angling my head to dominate me. The move drives me wild.
We kiss like ravenous beasts, loud and passionate, grasping and clawing at one another. But when London breaks the kiss and bends low to suckle my nipple, I almost come undone. Arching backward, I offer myself to him, unreserved and raw.
With lips locked around my breast, he digs his hand into my underwear, sinking two fingers into my sex. He works me fervently as I open my legs, welcoming him to own me. “I hope you’re not attached to these.”
Before I can ask what he means, he rips my thong clean off.
He tongues my nipple, grazing it with his teeth while plunging his fingers in and out of me. I’m lost to him, to the feel of him devouring and worshiping me. I grip the edge of the desk, needing an anchor before I float away.
My arousal coats his fingers, exposing just how turned on I am. I don’t think I could possibly get any wetter. However, when he sucks my nipple and then drops to his knees before it pops free, I am proven wrong. London grips my waist and drags my hips forward so I am half sprawled out across his desk. He peers up at me from between my splayed legs, a sexy smirk pulling at his bowed lips.
“London…” My words die in a garbled mess when he wraps one leg over his shoulder and takes my sex with his mouth. He licks along my entrance in one long sample, groaning at the taste.