The Mad British

by Leick, Hera

  Oh yeah, I’m in for it.

  I get her anger. I mean, I did wager her in a poker game like an arsehole. But in my defence, it was her dickhead date that snapped my fingers to take the bet.

  "Timmy?" I ask her, lifting my hand to my tie and loosen it from my collar. When it falls away, I pop the top two buttons on my shirt, then lean against the doorway. Her eyes look me up and down briefly.

  "I've deemed your little lap dog Lassie," she informs, crossing her arms across her chest and steps toward me. She pauses right in front of me, stabbing a finger against my chest. "Which makes you Timmy." My eyes snap briefly to Travis and it’s hard not to be amused by his expression. "But don't worry, Timmy," she murmurs, leaning in. I close my eyes for a beat; breathe her in.

  Chocolate has never smelled so damn good.

  "You don’t have to drag me out of the well," she continues, arching an eyebrow playfully. I would have been confused by her sudden change in demeanour had she not smelled of pretty things. "I come willingly."

  "With some tricks up your sleeves, I'm sure." My eyes sweep over her face, lingering on her eyes.

  She tilts her head to the side. "Of course, especially seeing as you like to gamble so much."

  She gives me no time to reply, placing both her hands on my chest and pushes me inside. She glances over her shoulder, back at my friend.

  "Lassie, you don't have to stand guard tonight. I think I can take good care of Timmy," she calls out, her voice low and bloody hot. I’m not sure if that’s more of a turn on, or if the way she slams the door in Travis' face, pressing her back up against it, her chewing on that plump lower lip, beats it out.

  "Mr Hatter. I hear you've been a bad, bad, boy." I swallow. Her voice is something out of a porno.

  She shakes her head, raising her hand, and brushes her fingertips across her bare shoulder. I clamp a hand against the door on either side of her head and stare down. Fighting the urge to crush my lips against hers, I ask, "And you aren't so innocent yourself, Miss Queen."

  "I guess it's safe to assume you plan on doing something about that, right?" She arches her back against the door, and it’s taking every ounce of strength I have not to take her right there.

  Her eyes look almost curious, but scared, as if she doesn’t know how far she wants to really take this. She starts to press her hips against me, but I move back, just out of reach.

  "Only if you want me to," I tell her, drawing in a deep breath. I look to the side. Being so close like this is driving the hunger to taste her to the edge.

  And it’s hard to look at her when she’s in a position that any man would want to take advantage of; leaning sexily against a door, a silk dress hugging every ounce of her skin, just the right way, and those full lips that are begging to be kissed.

  "I don't think it really matters what I want," she teases, snaking toward me slowly, looking confused when I immediately shift back. She stares at me for a second, and I know she’s pondering her next move. "Or maybe," she continues, stepping round me and walking toward the bed. "Maybe you're the submissive type." Every word she utters goes straight to my cock.

  My head whirls round to follow her, and I watch the way her hips sway beneath the material of her dress. I suck in a breath when she comes to a stop at the foot of my bed, lifting her hands to tug at the strap of her dress. It falls away instantly and she shimmies her way out of the dress until it’s nothing but a pool of blue at her feet.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  Sideways.

  Adelaide is even more beautiful than I’d imagined. Standing there in a strapless lacy blue bra and matching underwear, my heart pumps like crazy.

  Her hands glide over her skin as if she isn’t exactly sure what to do with them.

  "Adelaide," I warn.

  When my eyes roam over her body, I burn with the need to touch, taste, and sniff her scent like a crazed animal.

  "James. . ." Her tone rivals my own.

  She pivots round and crawls onto the bed, her hips rolling from side to side. When she makes it to the middle, she moves to face me, sitting up on her knees.

  I find myself stalking toward her, my steps deliberate and slow, almost predatory. I catch her swallowing nervously and stop, averting my eyes from the prize, despite my cock screaming to keep walking the line.

  Not like this.

  "Well?" she asks breathlessly. "How. . . how do you want me?"

  I lift my head up. The determination and sexiness in her voice is gone, replaced by shyness and—damn it—fear.

  "Don't do this, Adelaide." I move to the end of the bed to grab my tuxedo jacket. Climbing onto the bed on my knees, I go to cover her with the jacket, but she snatches it and tosses it to the floor.

  "I asked you, how do you want me," she repeats, leaning back on her elbows, her legs spreading just a bit.

  I groan feeling a wild, lawless thirst open up inside me. The femininity of her body is stunning. Too stunning. And any control I have begins to slip away with my sanity. I tip my head back and stare at the wall space above the bed.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  Think of mud, think of Travis butt-naked, anything else. . .

  I try, I force, but I always stray back.

  Even with my eyes closed, through the darkness, I can recall her body in all its glaring beauty. How her bra hugs her lush tits, and how the sheer fabric had strained as she bent lower on the bed. . . and how I almost made out two ripe, red cherries.

  Jesus Christ.

  I didn’t mean for this to happen. And sure, I want her, but not like this.

  I could shoot myself.

  Maybe I was the tosser.

  "I think I get it now," she continues in that breathy tone, poking me in the knee with her heel until I open my eyes. "How about this?" The moment I see her, she turns over onto her stomach, then moves to sit on all fours. "Was I wrong about you being submissive?"

  "Adelaide." I shake my head slowly, unsure as to why something about this is making me feel humiliated.

  "Or maybe you like those really complex positions?" She turns so that she is sitting on her knees and facing me. "You want to tie me up? Gag me? Throw me around a little bit, huh, Hatter?" The sweet seductiveness in her tone vanishes, replaced with a bitter reproach.

  She sits up on her knees, sliding her hands over my shoulders as she leans in, stopping only when her lips are just inches from mine. "Or do you want to make this some sort of game. . . ? You want me to play the dirty patient and you can be the doctor?"

  She holds onto my shoulders as she arches her back, tilting her head forward until her eyes lock on mine. I clench my jaw, moving my hands behind my back, refusing to join in on her antics.

  "Oh, Doctor Hatter," she moans, sinking her teeth into her lower lip. "I have a problem that needs your undivided attention."

  "Quit it, Adelaide." Grabbing her arms from my shoulders I shove them away. I jump up from the bed, pushing her back in the process, and grab her dress, realising just how thin the material is. I hurl it at her. "And put your damn clothes on."

  "I'm sorry," she murmurs innocently, leaning forward so that she’s on all fours again. She looks up at me, batting her eyelashes. "I didn’t realise you have something against doctors. . . Maybe the schoolgirl and the big, mean teacher? I'm sure I can use a—"

  "Stop screwing around." I snatch my jacket up from the floor and hold it out to her. "And I said—put some damn clothes on."

  When she makes no move to take the jacket I move round her, pulling it over her shoulders and then clasp it together in the front. She smacks me away, but I’m stronger, pulling her to her feet.

  "Put this on." I pry her arms from her body in an attempt to dress her. It’s only after touching her that I can feel she’s trembling. My eyes wander over her, taking in how badly she is shaking.

  I was wrong. I’m not a tosser.

  I am a complete and utter bastard.

  She gives way somewhat, allowing me to slide the jacket over her s
houlders. When I move to button the front, the back of my hand grazes over her smooth skin. She shoves me away.

  "Don't," she hisses. "I can dress myself.” I hold my hands up to show I wasn't going to touch her. “Anyway, you're supposed to be undressing me."

  "What is this all about?"

  "Well, pardon me, I thought that's what a whore is supposed to act like."

  "You’re not a whore." I say, knowing at that moment, just how upset she is with me.

  She gives a harsh, derisive laugh. "Oh, I thought I’m bought and paid for tonight, Mr Hatter."

  Her lower lip quivers, and tears well in her eyes. I can’t decide what she’s more upset over: Having been wagered or having stripped in front of a stranger.

  "How much did you pay for me, you son of a bitch?" She tightens my jacket over the front of her, as if finally noticing how exposed she is. "How much is a roll in the hay with me worth?"

  "It wasn't like that." I do my best not to look at her tears and see how badly I’ve hurt her. "Adelaide, I—"

  "Fuck you." She shoves me hard. I don’t budge. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I remain silent, letting her give it to me. I deserve this. "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?" She thumps her hands back against my chest and tries hard to push me away. Again, I don’t move, frustrating her even further.

  "God, men. So I batted my eyes at you. Contrary to what you may think, women can shamelessly flirt and not want to hop into bed with a man." I don’t know how much longer I can bite my tongue. "And you bloody well don’t wager women in a poker bet, you bast—"

  "What about your date?" I finally cut in, refusing to take the heat for this solely on my own. That prick was the one who took the bet.

  "He told me that the bet was your idea."

  Wayne. What else did the little shit tell her?

  I should have punched him.

  "You knew he was my date. Why would you do that when there’s a room full of women who would have gladly come up here tonight? And they would have come without a price."

  I shrug, looking away. There’s no way I can make her understand. At least not without hurting her more than I already have.

  Like I said: Utter bastard.

  "So, how much am I worth?" she repeats, hands clutching her hips. "How much—"

  "Maybe you should go ask your date because contrary to what you may think, Adelaide, he’s the one who took the bloody bet without a thought. He chose the money over you. So what the hell does that tell you?"

  She holds my gaze all too briefly, but long enough for me to know my words are finally sinking in. She nods, mostly to herself, then perches down on the edge of the bed, clasping her hands in her lap.

  “Why do I always let men do this to me. . .” Her words are said barely in a whisper, for her ears only. She squeezes her eyes shut. I know she’s trying hard not to cry.

  I should break my own kneecaps.

  This is not how the evening was supposed to turn out, at all.

  Not even close.

  "You must think I'm a mug," she murmurs, sniffling as she wipes her cheeks with the palms of her hands. “Going on a date with such a. . . ‘tosser’ as you put it.”

  "No," I reply, crossing the room to kneel down in front of her.

  I don’t touch her and she makes no move to touch me. I just want her to know that I’m here. That what’s happened so far—the whole show she put on the second she closed the door to my room—that it’s okay.

  "It's okay," she mutters, cradling her face in her hands. "I’m the biggest freaking idiot."

  "Far from it, love."

  That is most definitely Short-arse Tosser Wayne.

  I contemplate calling Travis and telling him to find out where Wayne lives, so I can teach him a lesson. But I realise it won’t make her feel any better. That, and the fact my phone is in my tuxedo jacket, the one she’s wearing.

  "You're just being nice," she says softly, sniffling again. "Especially since I gave you a free. . . peep show."

  I gently brush her soft, silky hair from her face so I can see those heart-stopping dark eyes. "I can give you one in return, so we’re even. I can even put on some music if you like." She laughs faintly, and I’m relieved when some hint of sparkle seems to return to her eyes.

  “Got any baby oil?” she jokes.

  I throw my head back and laugh. “No. But I’m pretty certain Travis carries some with him. I can go ask—”

  “No. No I was kidding.” She laughs heartily and the sound vibrates through my core. It feels good. “I think Lassie’s had enough excitement tonight.”

  “It’s good to see you laugh again.”

  That twinkle in her eye disappears. "I thought coming tonight would be fun. . . a chance for me to. . . move on from. . . things. . .” She pauses. "I was very, very wrong about that."

  She tightens my jacket round her, moving to button the front of it, and clears her throat. "And just so you know," she murmurs, chewing her lip nervously, "I uh, I've never had sex in a coat closet."

  "I've never had a quickie in a bathroom—" I pause. "At least not with a stranger."

  Her half smile doesn’t last long. "I need to know how much."

  "Does any amount make it okay?"

  She twists her head slightly away and looks down. "No," she replies, shrugging. "But making the wager isn't any better either."

  I nod. "Fair enough." Moving to my feet I offer a hand and I’m relieved when she takes it, helping her to her feet. "But if you give me a chance, maybe I can explain why I did."

  "You mean it wasn't for sex?"

  A heat radiates through my chest when her smile reaches her eyes, and I’m thankful she no longer appears to hold my part in the wager against me.

  "I really just wanted that drink." I smoothe my thumb over the back of her hand. “And maybe to spend a little more time with you." Her skin is supersoft against my calloused hand. I’d bet a year’s earnings that the rest of her crackin’ body is probably just as smooth.

  "Why?"

  "Why not?"

  She looks chuffed with my response, but a moment later, she asks, "Then why me?" She places a hand on the base of her neck. "When there's a room full of beautiful women out there, why me?"

  "They’re not beautiful.” I lean in and smell something new on her, other than the aroma of chocolate and vanilla. I have to find the source. Hopefully, she’ll want to see me again after tonight. A second chance to hunt for it.

  With my tongue, preferably.

  "Perhaps I'll tell you,” I continue. “Should you choose to stick around for that drink and maybe another game of some kind."

  Licking her lower lip, she bites into it, and I can see her response before she answers. "You want to play—"

  "I’d love to play with you, Adelaide.”

  “James. . .” Her high cheekbones pink up a bit.

  “Something you can't cheat at."

  She laughs softly. "Then it's only fair that you can't cheat either."

  "Does that mean you'll stay?"

  She pulls her hand out of mine, and I’m tempted to not let her go. "Depends," she says, skirting round me and crosses the room.

  "On?"

  "Whether or not I get to pick the game."

  I turn to follow her, finding it impossible to not look her over when she’s standing there all legs in front of me.

  I want to feel those pins wrap round my middle as I pump hard inside her. Over and over. Harder and harder.

  I shoot a quick glance to the bulge swelling below.

  Calm. The fuck. Down.

  Adelaide picks up a game piece from the hotel room’s chessboard, set on the desk by the floor-to-ceiling window that looks out on the River Thames. My breath hitches, but not at the spectacular view of London at night from such a great height. A kaleidoscope of shimmering lights reflects off her from outside, bathing her in a luminous glow. She looks like an angel.

  She runs her thumb over a pawn, brushing it almost absentmindedl
y across her lips.

  "You know after that whole thing before. . .” I say, lifting my head toward the bed, and notice how her cheeks turn a bright pink. "I'm just relieved to find out you aren't one of those odd fetish types."

  7

  Queen

  “SO NOW YOU’RE trying to get me drunk?"

  I’m standing under the doorway of the bathroom where I'd just spent ten minutes getting dressed and telling myself it’s okay that I had stripped down and offered to sleep with a stranger.

  It isn’t the stripping that curls my insides. I mean, how can it be with my past? No, it’s throwing myself at a one-night stand that makes me cringe. But the real kicker? I have no idea what I would have done had James been willing to get into bed with me. Then again, I’m not quite sure how to take it that he rejected the offer. I would eat my left foot if it turns out he bats for the other team. And he’s hardly acting like he is a man of the Church.

  A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he pours our drinks. "Rumour has it that you're more of a vodka girl."

  He picks up the glasses and walks toward me. I push myself away from the doorway, fixated on his smile. It’s mysterious in a way that is almost seductive, as if he doesn’t let just anyone see it.

  "So you do listen to that other brain of yours," I say, pointing a finger to my head.

  “It’s good for something.”

  I take the glass from him, but don’t take a sip. I feel sloshed enough from the champagne, which is probably why I had walked into this room and taken off my clothes in the first place. Vodka is a whole other ball game.

  “I’m curious,” he says. “Who taught you to count cards?”

  “My brother.”

  His glass stops halfway to his mouth. “He sounds. . . interesting.”

  “He’s not—are we going to play or not, big shot?" I lift my head in the direction of the desk behind him.

  "Why do I get the feeling you know your way around the board all too well?"

  I chuckle, mostly to myself, knowing I can say the same for him. Chess requires thinking several moves ahead, and tonight, we’ve both been playing our own version.