Big Love Abroad (Big Girls Do It Book 11)

by Jasinda Wilder

  Nasty, Nina. Dirty girl.

  I swept my thigh across the tip of his cock, smearing his essence on my skin, and then grabbed his hand, tugged him forward. He fell to his back beside me, and I rolled back into the nook, on the same side I’d been nestled against before he decided to alter my universe yet again.

  “I can’t believe you just let me do that,” he gasped.

  “Neither can I,” I admitted.

  “You all right?” His voice was concerned, warm, drowsy.

  I smiled against his chest. “Mmmmhhhmmm. So all right. Very all right. Sexed out and ready for sleep, though.”

  “You’re not tired already, are you?”

  “Getting fucked in the ass really takes it out of a girl, you know?”

  Ian snorted, and smacked my ass gently. “You really like being spanked.”

  “You really like my ass.”

  “God, you have no idea. I could do things to it all day.”

  “You have been,” I pointed out.

  He laughed, and his hand smoothed a path up my back and down. “Oh, right. Lucky me.”

  A long, long silence. I was nearly asleep, and so was he.

  “Ian?” Just as I’m falling asleep is when deeply buried things bubble up.

  “Hmmm?”

  “You really like me, the way I am?” I sounded so hesitant, and small. Vulnerable. The most hidden worry coming out. “The way I’m built…shaped, I mean. My body. That I’m not…not thin.”

  A pause. Was he asleep? Had he heard me?

  “Nina.” There it was, that use of my name as a scold. This time, his voice was mired in near-sleep, and he spoke in that slow, patient, tone of someone explaining the very, very obvious to the very, very stupid. “I love the way your body is shaped.”

  “Oh.”

  “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart?

  Whoa.

  Whoa.

  WHOA.

  So many things to freak out about. He…loved…the way my body was shaped.

  Sweetheart. He called me “sweetheart.” Not as a throwaway slang term, either. It was unfiltered, spoken naturally. A sleep-raw truth.

  Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. What am I supposed to do with this? I’m so conflicted and my anxiety is making it hard for me to breathe. Half an hour ago everything had seemed easy—perfect almost—but now I was in a state of panic.

  Wait. Wait. Wait. Calm down. Why am I freaking out? If he feels that way, and I sort of think I feel that way too, isn’t that a good thing? Isn’t this what I want?

  I had thought so, but as Ian snored beside me I began to doubt myself, and nothing seeds doubt like panic. I do crazy things when I panic.

  I grabbed my iPhone from the bedside table and began searching train schedules from London to Oxford.

  There was one at seven the next morning.

  Would I be a fool for running off like a scared rabbit, or would I be a fool to stay?

  I wish I knew.

  CHAPTER 7

  For an educated woman I am such an idiot.

  I totally panicked and bought a one-way ticket to Oxford.

  Instead of dealing with my emotions like a responsible adult, or talking to Ian about everything, I’d packed my bags and snuck out of the flat in the wee hours of the morning. Left the keys to the flat on the counter. I didn’t even leave a note. So not only am I an idiot, but I’m a coward, too. I did the very thing Ian had done to me—but my reasons were not half as good as his.

  But I just knew that if I’d stayed and talked to Ian about how I was feeling, he’d get me all mixed up, he’d charm me and make me feel like my fears and concerns were silly, nonsensical. Or worse, he’d acknowledge them as being totally legitimate, but then he’d talk me out of them and I’d stay with him in London and we’d fuck for a month straight and I’d fall in love and then he’d get tired of the chunky girl and go for someone skinnier and more glamorous, someone more in his league. Like Jessica Biel or Emma Watson. And then I’d end up lonely, a bitter cat lady without a degree, rather than a lonely, bitter cat lady with a degree. If I’m going to end up as a lonely, bitter cat lady, I might as well have a degree to show for it.

  By running away from Ian, I felt I’d doomed myself because…deep down, some part of me just…recognized and understood what Ian was trying to tell me. Like, on a visceral level. And whatever it was we had, it felt real. Immediate, intense, and it scared me more than anything I’d ever experienced before. I ran away from it. I just knew, lying there beside him, listening to his casual but honest comments about loving my body shape, and then calling me sweetheart, that I’d never be able to walk away from him if I didn’t do it then. I’d get stuck. I’d get lost in him, get addicted to and obsessed with being in his arms, feeling him near me, kissing him, touching him, hearing him reaffirm that I am actually beautiful to him. I mean, Jesus, who wouldn’t get addicted to that? Everyone wants—needs—to know that someone, somewhere, sees him or her as sexy, desirable, beautiful.

  Exiting the Oxford Railway Station concourse, I found myself standing at the main entrance, blue steel columns, red window frames, gleaming glass panes, crowds swirling and flowing around me. Cabs sat waiting nearby at the curb opposite the entrance, a huge red double-decker bus chugged past, brakes squealing, and then it was rounding a corner and gone.

  I hauled my heavy bags out of the station and into the warm summer air of Oxford, England. Here, at least, it was…underwhelming. Grey skies heavy with impending afternoon rain, tourists boarding a sightseeing bus, a long, low tan building of some kind, one of the outlying colleges, perhaps. On the way out of the concourse I grabbed a map of the area, so I paused, unfolded it, examined it, oriented myself…and discovered I had a hell of a long walk ahead of me, especially with three suitcases containing all of my worldly possessions.

  I was here just shy of a month early. I had no room allotted yet, and I knew no one. I had an apartment let for a month in London, furnished and paid for, which was now empty…except for one hunky, sexy, sleeping slab of British man-meat.

  Also, I had no idea how to get to the actual university from where I was. Official orientation wasn’t for weeks yet.

  And I was fighting tears of confusion, frustration, and regret. I should have stayed in London. I shouldn’t have left Ian without a word, or a note, or something. We never exchanged mobile numbers, so he couldn’t text or call me, nor I him.

  I mean, who does that? What kind of woman just vanishes in the middle of the night after experiencing the most mind-blowing sex of her life?

  I do, apparently. I had a feeling that this made me a horrible person. Ian would wake up alone; see that my bags were gone, the flat empty, no sign of me anywhere. What would he think? Would he shrug and go on his way? Would he be mad? Sad? Heartbroken, even? Would he scramble for the next train to Oxford and come after me like the hero of some romance novel? Maybe kiss me in the rain on the rolling green sward outside one of the graduate colleges.

  Oh, lord. I was losing it. I was imagining Ian as a romance hero, now.

  Delusional much, Nina?

  I shook myself out of my thoughts and started dragging my suitcases in the general direction of the university. I had the smallest bag stacked on top of the lighter of the two larger ones. Thank God they all had wheels as this allowed me to actually haul three bags at once, three insanely heavy bags. I was trying to conserve my cash, and taxis were expensive. It couldn’t be that far, really, could it? I could make it. People probably walked it all the time.

  Update: Nina isn’t made for long walks along narrow European streets, dragging a bunch of luggage.

  Further update: I must have looked like a comedy act, since people kept staring at me.

  Tertiary update: The terms wet, bedraggled, drowned rat, and soaked to the bone are not at all cute, funny, or in any way pleasant when applied to one’s self.

  Two blocks from the train station, the heavy grey skies broke open, unleashing a heavy torrent of rain. It was
n’t the nice, warm, summery kind of rain, either. It was hard and cold and biting.

  I found myself wishing I’d stayed in London, in bed with Ian, where it was dry and warm. I would have had the distinct advantage of feeling Ian’s burly arms around me, rather than being cold and wet.

  I held back a sniffle and pretended it was just rain on my cheek. I lugged my suitcase over a sizable crack in the sidewalk and continued on, pausing at the next intersection to double-check my progress. No sense wishing for Ian, now. He was back in London, in my flat, or what had been my flat, and he would be waking up at some point soon and discover me missing. He would probably think: to hell with crazy American fat chicks. Or, at least, that one specifically.

  I was not crying. It was just the rain on my face. I had got myself into this from start to finish, and I had no one to blame but myself. I had flirted with a man miles out of my league, I had let him get me into bed, I had allowed myself to think I could do casual sex, and then I had panicked when shit started to become real.

  Brakes squealed in the street to my left. “Excuse me, miss?” A thick English accent, a smooth male voice.

  I stumbled to a halt and looked at the speaker, and had to blink a few times. He was hot as hell. What was this? Attack of the sexy Englishmen? He had tanned skin, dark eyes, brown or maybe grey, thick brown hair pulled into a neat ponytail at the base of his neck. He was wearing a long-sleeve rugby shirt with alternating wide orange and blue stripes and a white collar. A closely-trimmed brown beard framed an expressive mouth, and rimless glasses sat on his nose, lightly spattered with droplets of rain from his opened window. He looked about thirty, maybe a little more, sophisticated, maybe a bit nerdy in the clean-cut university graduate student way.

  “Hi,” I said, pulling myself out of my stupor. “Can I help you?”

  He laughed, flashing bright white teeth in an easy smile. “No, you’ve got it backwards. I was going to offer you a ride, if you’d like one.” His gaze flicked quickly over my wet, bedraggled appearance. “You look a bit wet, but no worse for wear.”

  “Um. Yeah, I’m definitely wet. And definitely worse for the wear.”

  He jerked the parking brake upward, threw open the door of his car—a Citroën, maybe? I wasn’t too big into cars in general, let alone European models you never see in the U.S. He took two long strides toward me. Holy hell, he was tall. Six foot four, easily, if not more. Thin, though, long and lean and wiry. When he got out of the car, it was like watching something enormous expand in slow motion. He stood up and just kept going up and up and up. He grabbed one of my bags and opened the hatch of his car, slid my bag in easily, then did the same for the other one, quickly closing the hatch once more and tossing my remaining bag onto the small backseat. Then he darted around the car and folded himself into the driver’s seat which was on the right side of the car. Weird.

  The whole time I was just standing there, mouth agape, wondering what was happening to me this time.

  I mean, seriously? If anyone was going to rescue me from the rain, it just had to be another sexy Brit. It couldn’t have been a kindly old man, or a mom with a car full of kids. If this were a movie, this is where a nice middle-aged woman with an ample cleavage, smelling of patchouli and cats, with reading glasses hanging by a gold chain around her neck would stop for me and bring me to her flat and make me tea and share sage words of hard-won wisdom.

  But no, not this time. This time it just had to be another temptation, another distraction. I mean, I’d left Ian less than three hours ago. I could still smell him on my skin. I’d showered, thinking maybe that would wake him up and take the choice away from me, but Ian had slept on while I’d showered, dressed, packed…I’d stood staring at him for a moment, waiting for him to wake up and ask me what the hell I was doing, but he never did. He just slept on, oblivious to my betrayal, or my cowardice, or however my vanishing act could be described.

  “Are you getting in, miss?”

  I shook my head, as if to physically shake the thoughts out of my skull. “Yeah, sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  A quizzical look. “It’s half past eight in the morning.”

  “I—I’ve just—I mean—” I had no idea what to say. None at all.

  Fortunately, he took it in stride. “Well, get in, get in.” He gestured at the passenger door, on the left side of the car. Still weird.

  I got in. “Thanks. I’m all wet, so, sorry about the upholstery.”

  He waved his hand. “It’s leather, it’ll clean off all right.” A tug on the gearshift and the car bolted forward, pushing me back in my seat. “So, to the university, I assume?”

  “Yeah, the university. Thanks again.”

  “No worries. It’s actually rather a nice walk, if it’s not raining and you’re not fighting a load of unwieldy luggage.” He dug in the console cubby between the seats and came up with a handful of napkins, offering them to me. “Not much, but it’ll get your face dry, at least. I’m Lucas Killian, by the way.”

  “Nina Herrera. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Nina.” He paused at a sign of some kind, turned right, and then returned his glance to me. “So, you’re a new student, then?”

  I nodded, dabbing at my face with the napkin. “Yeah. I’m early, though. Term doesn’t start for a few more weeks. I’m not sure what I’m going to do between now and then.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll get you sorted. Being early might even mean you could get your pick of the unassigned single rooms. The libraries will be mostly empty, too, so you can spend as much time as you want in there, no classes to get in the way of reading.” He shrugged, stammered. “If—if you’re into that sort of thing, I mean. But then you’ve come to Oxford, so I imagine you are that sort to some degree, right? I mean, you don’t really go to Oxford if you’re not—” He cut himself off. “Fuck it, I’m rambling again.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “I am most definitely that sort, Lucas. I’m a literature nerd, so having the library to myself sounds like a special kind of heaven.”

  “A fellow bookworm!” His face lit up. “I’m in the literature department too, actually. I can show you where all the best manuscripts are, if you like. The Bodleian Library is…there just aren’t words to describe it. It’s history in its purest form, truly. The smell of the Bodleian, all those stacks…thousands of years of literature…there’s nowhere else like it in all the world, if you ask me.”

  His excitement and passion were palpable, and contagious. “God, the Bodleian Library, I’ve heard so much about it. I can’t believe I’m really going to see it! Up until now it hasn’t really seemed real that I’m actually going to be studying at the University of Oxford.”

  Lucas smiled at me, and then pointed straight ahead. “Well, it’s really real, Nina Herrera. There’s Christ Church right there.”

  I was lost in the sights as I fell silent trying to take it all in. Lucas seemed content to let me look as he navigated the car through a series of sharp turns down narrow lanes between the tall, ancient stone buildings. Eventually he found a parking spot, seemingly at random, and pulled into it. Rain pattered steadily on the roof and the windows. Beyond the glass I could see a long, low building stretching out into the distance, with castle-like spires piercing the sodden, leaden sky, the tan-colored stone darkened by the rain. I’d paid no attention to where we were going, so when Lucas snagged an umbrella from the backseat of the car and got out, I followed him. He opened the umbrella and held it out for me, ducking under and standing close to me. And then he managed to somehow lead me while simultaneously walking beside me. We came to a doorway and then we were in a small pub with a low ceiling. The place was dark and warm and dry with the sound of quiet voices and the faint tinny sound of music on so low you could barely hear it, just enough to provide a background atmosphere. Despite the fact that it was summer, it was cool outside, so there was a small fire flickering in the fireplace.

  “Go sit by the fire and dry out, and I’ll g
et us some drinks.” He set off confidently, and then stopped abruptly and turned around, hesitating. “Um. I suppose I should ask…what would you like to drink?”

  I shrugged. “Tea?”

  “Right, right. Early for a pint, I suppose.”

  “Maybe a little,” I agreed.

  “A little, yes. Later, then. Pints, I mean.” He blinked several times, staring at me, as if parsing whether he’d just made any sense or not. And then he shook himself and gave a shy, nervous, but bright smile. “Tea it is, then.”

  I watched him as he leaned easily against the bar and spoke in low tones to the bartender. There were only a few other people in the pub, four young guys with messy hair and bleary eyes as if the pints they were drinking at this hour were part of a long night rather than the first of a long day. There was an older gentleman with white hair and a beard wearing an actual tweed blazer who was reading a paper and drinking tea. Oh god, how perfect, he actually had a pipe, too, smoke curling up from the briar bowl clutched in one elegant yet gnarled hand. It was like a scene from any number of books I’d read, but here it was in real life.

  I took a seat by the fire in a deep, thick armchair, sinking down and sighing with relief. The fire warmed me and dried the moisture out of my clothes and off my face as I waited for Lucas to bring the tea. He brought them one at a time, white ceramic plates with small pots of tea, white strings and tags hanging over the sides of the pots, a tiny cup of milk, and a couple cubes of sugar. He carried them carefully, awkwardly, setting one plate down on the table between the two armchairs, then returned with the second. I reached for the pot of water nearest me, but Lucas was already pouring a small measure of milk into the mug, and then the tea, adding a sugar cube, stirring it a few times, and then handing it to me.

  “Here…oh, I—I hope you take your tea with milk and sugar. I suppose I should have—um, is it all right?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, it’s fine. Thanks.”

  He fixed his own tea the same way, and then lifted the mug to me. “Cheers. Here’s to Oxford, and the Bodleian.”