"Where is your apartment?"
Her eyes, the kind of green that blankets Ireland's rolling cliffs, filled with confusion and apprehension. "Why would I tell you that? Just drop me off at the nearest tube station and I’ll be fine to get home.”
I try to hide my smirk, only because she is in some pain, at her naïveté. Even if we hadn't just been basically attacked by fame chasers, I'd still have gotten up to her place somehow. She was foolish in thinking that once she entered my car, there was anywhere else that this night would end up. But I didn't tell her this.
"Um because you're sitting in my car, wounded and alone at night in the middle of a strange city. I’m a gentleman. I’m going to take you home."
“A gentleman, that’s rich.” She scoffed.
“Leah…you have a sore ankle, there are paparazzi probably fresh on our heels, and you have been in this city about two days. You can either tell me where you live, or I can bring you back to my place, where I can assure you, I will be the furthest thing from a gentleman. Don’t test my kindness, you’ll find it runs out very shortly.”
My reasoning must have struck some kind of common sense nerve in her, because she seems to reassess her situation.
"Gloucester Mews. In Paddington." She turns, staring out the window once again.
I turn on the radio, David Grey singing about Babylon, and tap my fingers in time on the steering wheel. I've never been in the presence of a female, at least in the last couple of years, who isn't all over me the minute we are alone.
Leah Watson is like a Rubik’s Cube. Every time I think I've got her figured out, she shows me another side, infinitely complicating my plan to seduce her. She's a challenge, and those don't come along often in my life now. Usually everything is dumped in my lap, and she is not one of them. It makes me want to fight tooth and nail to get it. Get her.
Get her, but not keep her. I don't do that sort of thing anymore. I don't fall, melt or go head over heels for anyone.
As I drive us through London's Zone 1 I see her perk up a bit. I realize that in the short couple of days she's been here, she probably hasn't seen anything, except my messy life. I feel kind of bad about that, except at the same time it selfishly feels brilliant.
So I go for selflessness. “So, you fancy Thai food now, huh?”
The lights from the street and the moon catch her hair as she turns her head. “I liked it a lot, thanks.”
“My pleasure. I’ll take you anywhere you want to eat if you’ll make noises like that again.”
Her features clouded with confusion. “What noises?”
I smirked just thinking about them, the tip of my cock warming and pulsing at the memory. “Those tiny, breathy moans you made when the flavors touched your tongue. The whispered groans that came from your throat, like you were in the throes of a brilliant orgasm, as if you didn’t care who was around to hear you because the pleasure was just too overwhelming. Those noises. I’ll feed you whatever you need to get you to make those again.”
Her face is the shade of ripe cherry as she gapes at me, and I know she hasn’t misheard my double entendre about feeding her whatever she wants. Because right now, I’d very much like to feed her the monster growing between my legs.
I drive up Edgeware Road, flinching as I see what she's living so close to. Men, with their dangerous and wandering eyes, openly cat calling any women on the street that aren’t dressed in traditional Middle Eastern garb. Children begging in and out of restaurants, the men who fathered them sitting closely by ogling any modern female. It wasn’t a ghetto necessarily, but it wasn’t the safest area of the city.
I had no problem with different races, religions, etc. London was one of the biggest melting pots in the world. But I did take issue with men who treated women like objects. Who felt that they were put on this planet for male gratification and nothing else. Yes, I was a smarmy asshole most of the time, but I never threatened women, made them feel as if they were in danger. I clearly set the boundaries, sex and nothing more. If I wasn’t interested in a woman for that, I typically didn’t even give her the time of day. But I would never hurt one physically. I couldn’t say the same about these men.
Pulling up in front of her building, an old stone doozy with an alleyway leading to the entrance, I unbuckled and moved to get out.
"You don't have to get out. I'm completely fine. Thanks for the ride." Leah hops out, forgetting about her sore ankle and broken shoe, and yelped when they both hit the ground.
I was around the car in two-seconds flat, pushing her to sit back down while I inspected her ankle under the streetlamp.
She gasped when I slid her pant leg up, caressing the smooth, rosy flesh of her calf and ankle. I felt it under my fingertips, like the softest cashmere, as I made my way down to her swollen foot. And was it ever swollen.
"You'll need to rest and ice this. I don't think anything is broken, but you have to look after it." Being an athlete, I'd had loads of injuries. This one wasn't serious, but in the little time I'd known Leah, it didn't seem like she'd follow orders. "Why do I feel like you won't obey my directions?"
She tilted her head, the blonde strands floating around her exquisite cheekbones. "Maybe because I've been following everyone else’s directions for way too long.”
I didn’t push her further. She needed to get inside and rest her foot.
“Come on.” I shouldered her weight, stopping at the door so she could fit her key into the lock. Once inside, I half-carried her over to the lift.
“Shit. I forgot it’s broken.” She bit that lip again, a worried look consuming her features as her green eyes moved over to the stairs.
“Climb on.” I patted my shoulder with my free hand.
“No…” She responded half-heartedly.
“What are you going to do, Leah? Crawl up the stairs? What do you live, five floors up?”
“Seven. Fine.” Her slim arms loop around my neck and I reached behind me for her thighs as she lifts them up to sit on my back in a piggyback hold.
She’s got to be about 110 pounds soaking wet, her thin, long frame surrounding my entire body, all of my senses. I smell and feel her everywhere. I wish I could lay her on the stairs as I clear the first floor, taste the curve of her neck and the supple skin between her thighs.
By the time we make it to the third flight, we are both breathing heavy. But it has nothing to do with me carrying her weight or the pain in her ankle. My pulse spikes every time she shifts on my back, feeling her hands, hot and small on my shirt right over my collarbone. I want her to run them down further, scratching my abs and branding me.
My dick strains in my pants, and I swear each time I hike her up to better hold her, her thighs squeeze around my hips not only to not slide down further, but in an attempt to alleviate the mounting pressure between those beautiful legs. I’m almost sure I’m about to maul her when I set her down outside her door on the seventh floor.
My nose is inches from her as she leans back against the door, my arms pushed into the wall on either side of her head. I can smell the sweet, faint breath blowing against my own lips. I stare into her eyes, our heated connection something heady and unusual for me after all of these years. It’s like I’m stuck in this vortex with a woman I barely know, a vacuum where the world stops existing and it’s only she and I.
Leaning forward, I don’t give either of us time to think when I press my lips firmly into hers.
Heat. Sweetness. Perfection. Want. Desire. I think all of these things as I move my lips over hers. Not even in a kiss, but more of a taste. A swipe of her lips, as if I was licking sweet cream off the corners of her mouth, savoring each delicious moment.
She sighs, sinking into the slow unhurried tastes and exploration. I wrap my hands around her slim arms, brushing the backs of her biceps with my fingers until I feel her flesh pebble. Leah never touches me, but her mouth moves against mine, her tongue flicking out at times to lap at my lips. I open my eyes at times to stare at our lips moving. I spot her beauty
mark above the curve in her luscious top lip and feel my balls draw up tight. I want to spend hours circling that sexy feature with my tongue.
And along the way, as I suck and nip at the seam of her mouth, I think one more word. Complete.
Something sounds from inside the apartment and our vortex is destroyed, bringing us back to reality in her dim apartment hallway that smelled oddly of samosas.
Leah’s expression again gave away nothing as she pushed me off of her, reaching behind her body and unlocking the door. And then she was gone, slipping into the mysterious space without so much as a word.
8
Leah
What I was learning about London, in the three days I'd been here, was that it was a city that slept.
In the wee hours of the morning, everything would go dark and silent, save for the lone police or ambulance sirens. You could almost hear the electricity going through the streetlights and the random taxis whisking pubgoers back to the safe havens.
And then, as the early light filtered through the window, everything would come back online. Not slowly, not a few businessmen flaunting down the sidewalk or the odd school children skipping to the bus. No, the noise and the people flooded back within seconds, creating a dull roar of commotion and energy and vibrancy that invaded my own system, propelling me from my bed.
Not that I'd slept much last night. Again. This was starting to become a problem, but for some reason, my stupid brain would not shut off.
Maybe it was because my ankle was so sore that I'd had to get up three times last night to get a new ice pack. Maybe I was worried about that paparazzi onslaught I'd suffered, and what they would find out about me if those pictures got released anywhere. Not that I was a huge deal back home, but people would start talking, people from my past. I’d been in a relationship with a man who was probably going to go number one in this year’s draft. If my picture popped up with another world class athlete, there would be stories on it.
Maybe I was so anxious over breaking my brand new roommate’s expensive shoe. How the hell I was going to replace Emma's heels, I had no clue.
Or maybe it was because I couldn't get the taste of Killian off my lips. Maybe because every time I thought of him leaning in, pressing his mouth to my own and exploring each inch of it, I felt dizzy. Like I was floating away on a cloud even though I was firmly laying beneath the covers in my temporary bed.
That kiss had been. Holy hell. I felt the sweat trickle down my breasts from just the mere thought of the heat of it, even though the winter in London had arrived with a vengeance, leaving the poorly insulated flat around 60 degrees or so.
I was still getting tingles of lust, hot and jolting, between my legs. I'd squirmed all night, uncomfortable and needy. It had been months since anyone had touched me, and probably a year since Taylor had touched me like that. And if I was being truthful, years since I'd gotten so worked up over a man's hands on me, much less over a tiny kiss. As much as I had always been satisfied with Taylor, one kiss from Killian and I understood what he meant when he said I had never been with a man. He hadn't even used his tongue and I'd been practically unraveling on the grimy hallway carpet.
Yes, Killian Ramsey had barely brushed his lips against mine and even then he'd set a giant spark to my powder keg. I felt the wick flashing, throwing off embers to every crevice of my body, burning me up from the inside out. He was a man who knew how to use his hands, mouth, teeth and tongue on a woman. I didn't need him to go any further than a light peck to know that.
"No fucking way!" I heard an excited squeal from the kitchen, and this one even woke Heidi up. When I'd gotten home last night, there had been a handsome blonde exiting our room. I hobbled in to see Heidi, nude for the world to see like it was the most natural thing on earth. Not that I blamed her. If I looked like that I'd probably never wear clothes again.
"What in the bloody hell is going on?" she grumbled, sitting up and looking like the picture of a magazine cover advertising pajamas. I almost hated her.
"Don't know..." I swung my legs to the floor, careful to test my healing ankle before putting pressure on it. Still a bit swollen, but definitely better than last night.
Heidi followed, and when we entered the kitchen, Bridget and Emma were on the stools next to each other, examining several packages and the newspaper.
"You tarts interrupted my 12 hours of sleep." Heidi yawned, her long black t-shirt inching up to reveal the pink lacy boy shorts she wore. She shook out her brown mane as she moved to the pantry.
"Sorry, Queen Bee. But you'll never fucking guess what the American has been up to." Bridget was dressed in school clothes, ready for class. Dark grey jeans, an olive sweater and tons of thin, gold chains around her neck. With her red hair blown out and perfectly curling at the ends, she looked like she belonged in the Irish version of a Land's End catalog. Emma sported a crop top and skater skirt made out of the same pattern of sweatshirt material with tiny motorcycles all over it. Her blonde hair was wrapped into two ballet buns, and she looked cute yet so fashionable.
My mouth dropped open when I looked at what was on the counter. Two perfectly wrapped Burberry boxes, complete with beige and red plaid bows. One had a tag on it that read Ms. Watson, the other, Her Fashionable Roommate.
"What the..." I scurried to the counter, carefully picking up the box that had my name.
"Pretty sure you're the fashionable roommate." Bridget pointed her spoon at Emma. Emma greedily picked it up, digging into the packaging.
I did the same in a more composed, calmer manner. Etiquette had been drilled into me from a young age, especially in a social situation. But you know what? Fuck that. This trip and this life I was living was now about me.
I took Emma's cue, tearing into the paper and ribbons and damn did it feel good. We popped the lids off the boxes at almost the same time, gasping as we looked at what lay within.
Identical pairs of black suede Burberry heels, much like the ones I'd broken last night.
"Who sent these?" Emma looked down in awe at her sparkly, shiny new fashion toys. I saw the addiction in her eyes, this stuff was like pure cocaine to her. She got off on the look and smell alone.
"Oh, I have an idea..." Bridget trailed off, and I could hear the snarky smile in her voice as she slid that morning's paper across the breakfast bar to Heidi.
"You went out with Killian last night?!" Heidi drawled, rolling her eyes even though I could see the jealousy laced in with the chocolate brown.
I was too busy studying the shoes and her expression to glance down at the paper. Until her words registered in my ears.
Casting my view down, there we were. Killian and I, embracing for all the paparazzi to see on the front page of The Sun.
"Oh no..." My stomach filled with dread as I flipped frantically through the paper to the article about us. More pictures, so many pictures. Of Killian touching my face, staring deeply into my eyes. His arms around my waist. Us leaving the restaurant in his car together. My organs felt like lead, like someone had tied my body to a weight and pitched it overboard into the ocean. I was gaining water quickly, drowning in fear, misery and regret.
"Looks like you did a mighty fine job last night to earn a present that nice." Heidi quipped, and I heard Bridget snicker.
Tears filled my eyes at her assumption, that I was just another one of these girls Killian Ramsey used and abused.
"Here," shoving the shoes in her direction, "You can have them."
And with that I turned back around, hobbling on my hurt foot to my room and trying to hold back the tears until I was safely under the covers.
* * *
The funny thing was, I had always been ready for a life in front of the cameras.
It had taken me a few years to adjust, perfecting the right things to say, the best expressions to wear in certain scenarios.
Taylor's people had always told me I needed to work on my wardrobe, and I was getting there.
And then the world that I had been so di
ligently preparing for promptly stomped on my heart and dumped me.
I'd been with Taylor Mason for five years. Our junior year of high school, all the way up until two months ago.
He'd been my first guy friend, and then my first boyfriend. The first boy to ask me to a school dance, and then the one that took me to prom. The first boy who stuck his hand up my shirt, the one who had taken my virginity. The boy who I watched grow into a man, garnering attention from football analysts and scouts all over the country. The one I followed to college, helping as his football career took off.
The first boy I'd ever fallen in love with, and the boy who I thought would be my last.
I'd practically planned our wedding. I thought it would be inevitable as to where we'd end up. We'd talked about what would happen when he was drafted, and I'd been prepared for it all. Ready to move, make us a home and a life in whichever city wanted him. I'd scouted venues in our hometown for the following spring, a nice wedding nestled in between the seasons. I'd forgotten about my dreams, sacrificing everything for the greater good that was Taylor.
I never looked back, and then suddenly, there was no looking forward.
Exploring other options. God, but wasn't that just the most cliché breakup speech you'd ever heard? It was so unoriginal and typically male. I'd given him five years, was prepared to give him many more, and he couldn't come up with a better reason than he wanted to fuck the perks that came along with being an NFL star?
I squeezed my eyes shut under the white duvet, weeping silently as my broken heart cleaved even more in two, splintering and cracking my chest wide open. I wasn't even crying for lost love, because if I was honest with myself, the boy I'd fallen in love with didn't exist anymore. I'd watched as Taylor had developed an ego, a hard exterior cockiness about him that I barely recognized as he rose through college football's ranks. And yet I stood by him.
No, I was crying for all of the time I'd lost. The girl inside of me who had vanished, taking all of my hopes that had been buried under the dreams of someone else with her. I sobbed for the life I'd never have, the one I had carefully laid out, planned for, and was now smashed to bits, trodden on by cleats that couldn't give a damn about my feelings. I cried for the life he’d promised me, the one he’d mapped out for us as he whispered to me in the various beds and rooms we had shared over the years. And then I shed tears for the new knife sticking out of my chest, the one that hemorrhaged fear and anxiety from me like I was bleeding out. Pain and hope did an emotional dance in my chest. Hurt for the life I would never live, and anxiety for the new one I was trying to create.
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