“I wonder what Queen Victoria would think of me getting you off in the middle of her husband’s hall?” I ask.
“I should think she would have loved the thought,” he replies. “Saucy little chinchilla that she was.”
I let out a laugh as I unzip his fly and ease my hand into the front of his trousers, sighing as I find an incredible hard-on waiting for me.
Galen’s fingers make their way to my breasts, pinching my nipples gently, which only makes me want him all the more.
“I don’t want to ruin the mood,” I whisper, “but I’ve wanted to know since we met—how do you control your left hand so well?”
He nods his head towards the prosthetic. “There are sensors that read the messages coming from my brain,” he tells me. “They’re extremely sensitive, obviously. They know if I want to do something like this…” With that, he strokes his left thumb over my nipple, “or this…” He lifts his hand to stroke his index finger over my lower lip. There’s nothing strange or overly aggressive about his touch; it feels natural, gentle.
“How does it feel to you?” I ask.
“Well,” he replies, “not as good as what you’re doing down there, I’ll admit.” We both look down at my hand, which is working its way up his dick slowly.
“This does feel good,” I say, slipping down onto my knees to pull his trousers and boxers down around his ankles. For the first time, I’m seeing him up close. His cock is just as delicious as I suspected. Long, thick, devastatingly hard.
Wrapping my fingers around him, I slide my tongue from the base of his shaft to the tip, savouring the moan that erupts from between his lips. “Riley, you’ll be the end of me,” he says.
“I hope not. I’m just getting started,” I tell him.
I work him slowly, wrapping my lips around the head of his dick, sucking on the swollen peak as more moans make their way through his chest. Somehow he manages to step out of his pants and shoes, and for the first time, we’re equally naked. Well, almost equally.
I still have my boots on.
“I need to be inside you,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong; I would love to come in your mouth, but I really, really want to fuck you. Is it okay?”
I pull away and look up at him. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m on the pill. I mean…”
“Don’t worry, I have no communicable diseases.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then I need you to stand up, because I’d very much like to show you to my bedroom.”
I do as he’s asked. He kisses me once before taking my hand to guide me to his room. He leaves the hall light on and takes me over to the bed, sitting me on its edge and splitting my thighs apart. I lie back, staring at him, my core aching for his touch.
One quick stroke of his tongue and he’s standing over me again, his muscles a work of art that would challenge any piece in the National Gallery.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, looking into my eyes. I can feel his cock pressing gently into my opening. The anticipation is painful and wonderful all at once.
“So are you,” I reply. “You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met, Galen.”
“Then we’re a perfect fit.”
With that he drives himself inside me, and my mouth opens to let out a cry of pleasure. He’s so big that it almost hurts. Oh, but it feels so damn good.
A hint of sadness passes through my chest as he pulls back out, but then he pushes himself in again, slowly this time, as though ensuring that every nerve in my body experiences the sensation.
“We’re going to do this many, many times before I let you go,” he says. It’s the most appealing warning in the world. “Just once isn’t going to be enough, not for me.”
I don’t know whether to nod or shake my head. All I know is that I agree. Once is not enough.
A thousand times won’t be enough.
But we can always try.
He speeds up his pace, his eyes locked on mine. Occasionally, he presses his torso downward and takes a nipple between his lips, then rises again to bury himself deep inside me. I want to yell, to cry, to laugh, all at once.
To tell him how I feel about him.
To tell him I’ve never felt this way about anyone.
I’m terrified and exhilarated, and I don’t want this moment to end. I love feeling this way.
And that’s not all that I love.
No. No talk of love. Just savour this moment. Enjoy the pleasure of it.
“Hard,” I growl through clenched teeth, trying to numb my emotions.
“Hard?” he asks. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I reply. Break me. Shatter my body. I don’t care. Ruin me, because I don’t want to go back to what I was before you.
He speeds up the pace, driving into me like he’s out for revenge. He knows it’s what I want. He knows I want to feel every possible sensation in this moment, even if it’s brought on by agony.
But there’s nothing agonizing about it. The sweetest, most sensual pleasure floods me, the most erotic sensation I’ve ever experienced in my life.
He slips his right hand down between us and strokes the pad of his thumb over my bud, which only enhances the feeling. Searing heat overtakes my insides as I realize that I’m on the verge of another orgasm.
“I’m going to come,” I yell. “Fuck, Galen…I’m going to come so hard.”
“Me too,” he growls in return, picking up his pace.
The moment my channel seizes around his shaft, my hips bucking under him, he thrusts one final time, shooting an explosion of heat into my core. We cry out together, our bodies colliding as I wrap my arms around him, pulling him deeper inside.
Don’t let this end. Not yet. I’m not ready to let go.
How am I ever going to say good-bye to this? I ask myself. How can I ever let him go?
I don’t have an answer to that question.
All I know is that I have to.
Twenty
Riley
Day: I’ve lost track. I think it’s Monday.
Mental state: Happy. Terrified. Satisfied. Yet still hungry for more Galen.
Steps: Literally thousands. Because the Stepbitch apparently counts blowjobs and thrusts as steps. And who am I to argue with that brilliant logic?
We’ve been in bed for two days. Unless you count the few moments when one or the other of us has gotten up to a) use the bathroom, b) get some food or c) take a two-person bubble bath.
Other than that, we’ve become residents of Naked City, and I love it here. I don’t know how many orgasms I’ve had. There should be a Stepbit for that. An Orgasmo-meter, if you will. Though if there were such a thing, it probably would’ve exploded by now.
Galen has a photo shoot this morning at ten. We haven’t talked about it. We’ve been extremely adept, in fact, at completely denying the elephant in the room that means that our one-night-stand-that-was-actually-two-nights (and basically three days) has come to an end.
I’m still fucking blissful.
But I’m also sad.
“Want to come?” he asks as he flips onto his side, staring at me. His hair’s mussed up, but perfect, as always. The curve of his lips tells me that he’s as content as I am in this calm before the inevitable psychological storm of ours.
“You want me to come again?” I ask, teasing him. “I don’t know if I have another one in me, but…sure, why not. You’re a talented fellow. You can certainly give it the old college try.” I start pushing the sheets down, exposing myself for him as I suppress my laughter.
“Oh, you know I’d eat you out until the cows come home,” he says, leaning over and planting a soft kiss on my right nipple, his hand venturing between my legs. “But I’m talking about the shoot.”
“Really?” I ask, my voice slightly strained by my arousal as he slips a finger inside me.
“Really.”
“Won’t I distract you?”
“All the more reason for you to come with me.”
�
�Then yes, absolutely. I would love to watch you work.”
“Good.” He pulls away and slips out of bed, licking his finger clean. “Unfortunately, I’m going to need to do a few push-ups and shower before we head off. I’m going to get the coffee brewing. Just help yourself when it’s ready, love. In the meanwhile, relax for a little; we’ve got plenty of time.”
I slip out of my side of the bed and grab an oversized t-shirt that I’ve been borrowing on occasion. Tossing it on, I stroll into the kitchen, where Galen’s already getting the coffee ready in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.
Quietly I slip up behind him, wrap my arms around his waist and press my cheek between his shoulder blades. He lets out a sound like a quiet, manly purr.
“Careful,” he says. “You’ll get me going again.” He turns to face me, those intense blue eyes of his looking me up and down. “I’m going to be a very disciplined bloke and hop in the shower. Back in a jiff.” With that, he kisses me softly and pulls away.
Good boy. We can always have sex later, after all.
Wait—no, we can’t.
That’s not the deal.
The deal is that we return to tour guide and tourist. The deal is that we go back to an arms’ length relationship. Just friends.
As I watch him go, a sinking feeling settles inside my chest.
There is to be no relationship. No holding hands in public. No talk of staying together, and certainly no talk of my coming back here tonight.
Which means that I really shouldn’t be going to watch his photo shoot like I’m his girlfriend. That’s the kind of thing people do when they’re in a relationship. I’m banned from relationships for the foreseeable future. I’m supposed to stay away from them like an alcoholic shies away from booze.
An angry swarm of bees works its way through my stomach, stinging me repeatedly, reminding me that I put myself in this position. I created a situation in which I would feel pain.
This isn’t good.
I’m panicking.
I can hear the shower running in the next room, so I spring back into the bedroom and pull my clothing on. When I walk into the kitchen, the aroma of coffee greets me like a familiar cloud of tastiness, inviting and reassuring.
But I can’t afford to be falsely reassured. I know what I have to do.
My senses are quickly getting overloaded. Part of me wants to sit out here in this incredible apartment and ponder what it might be like to stay forever. Maybe we could talk this through. What might our lives be like if we could actually try to make this work? What if this could be permanent, this bliss of ours?
What if it’s the life we were both always meant to lead?
Part of me, though, wants to run away now, before things get even harder. Because it’s possible that this little love fest of ours was nothing more than a glitch in the universe’s software. It wasn’t supposed to happen.
I came to England to free myself, not to ensconce myself in another serious relationship. I’m not ready for that, and I know it. Even if a perfect man has fallen in my lap, I’m not prepared to deal with permanence.
On a quick, stupid impulse, I hunt for a pad of paper and a pen. I’m going to write a note. Polite, concise. Easy. Right?
Galen,
Just realized I can’t come to the shoot. I have too much to do; I’m way behind on my blog. Maybe another time?
—R
As I make my way to the door and grab my purse and jacket, I already feel like a total ass. He’ll know, of course. He’ll know that my escape has nothing to do with the blog. He’s no fool.
All I can hope is that maybe he’ll realize that I’m actually doing us both a favour by running away.
Twenty-One
Galen
She’s gone.
Riley’s gone.
But oh look, she left a note, rapidly scribbled on a bit of paper. I suppose I ought to be grateful for that.
The note is bollocks, of course. She didn’t need to leave to do her work. She could write from the photo shoot, or a coffee shop, or literally anywhere in London.
The simple truth is that she got scared and fled.
I know it was fear that drover her off, because I felt the same this morning, while I was in the shower. I went completely sodding mad. But not because things have gotten serious to quickly with my sexy American lover, which is probably what should panic me.
No. It was because it hit me how soon I’ll lose her.
That is, if I haven’t already. I meant what I told her a couple of evenings ago, before we came to my place for our forty-eight hour sexual marathon: I don’t want to send her to her home across the ocean.
Ever.
I’ve never met a woman like Riley. She’s me in female form, only she’s far better than I am. She’s fun, funny, beautiful, intelligent, independent. She’s insecure and confident at once. She’s flawed and splendid and she makes me feel…right. I feel whole with her, but free enough to breathe properly for the first time in my life. When I sleep next to her, it’s not a fitful, worried sleep. It’s a deep, profoundly pleasant sleep brought on by the knowledge that things are as they should be.
The truth is that I adore her in spite of my resolution to fight off love. She makes me want to forget that promise to myself, because the fact is, I’m better when I’m with her.
That’s the problem, of course. It’s foolish to have let myself adore a woman who’s about to leave the country. Foolish to spend every moment thinking about her. Foolish to have let her steal my heart.
Why the fuck have I never learned to hide myself behind a wall of cold steel, like so many men do? Conlon was always so good at that. For years, he managed to involve himself briefly with women and then dismiss them outright, as if they were nothing to him. He was the master of the one-night stand. I never much respected him for it, but at the very least it kept his life from getting complicated.
I, on the other hand, am the master of ill-conceived relationships.
Of course, Conlon’s attitude changed the moment he met Adriana. He felt about her like I feel about Riley. The difference is that Adriana managed to stay in Paris with my brother. Riley will not be staying. I know she won’t. She’s on a self-imposed emotional moratorium, and she’s the sort of woman who will find a way to stick it out, even if it’s out of pure stubbornness. She’s to be admired for her strength.
I am not as strong. The truth is, I wanted her at my shoot today because I wanted to show her off to everyone who will be there. Even Penny, who would hate Riley for being the object of my affections. I want the world to know how I feel about her. I want her to know, too.
But that ship, as they say, has sailed. I’ll be going it alone.
As I pull on my jeans and shirt, my phone begins to ring, jarring my mind away from thoughts of what ifs and regrettable endings. For a moment my heart dances, thinking it could possibly be Riley. Maybe she’s changed her mind. Maybe she’ll come back. We’ll talk things through, figure out how we can make this work.
But my hope is quickly dashed when my eyes meet the screen only to see Penny’s number. Damn it. The remora strikes again.
“Hallo?” I say in my most faux-cheerful voice when I pick up, not even remotely wanting Penny to grasp that I’m not in a good mood. She’d only ask why and try to console me by offering to put a hand on my arse.
“Galen? Listen, I know you’re working today, but are you also available for a shoot out of town tomorrow morning?”
“I don’t know, Pen. I…” I’m available. I’m very available. I’m entirely alone, in fact. “Yes, sure,” I moan.
“Great. It’s in a beautiful venue. They’ve selected an old church for the spread…”
“Yes, fine, whatever,” I snap, taking out my frustration on my poor, naive agent. “Sorry. Yes, that would be fine. Just send me the details and I’ll get myself there.”
“Anything wrong, lovely?” she asks.
“Everything,” I say, no longer willing to summon the str
ength to hide it. Taking this job of hers means I’ll be leaving London for at least a day. That brings me one day closer to the date of Riley’s departure from my city and my life. But what does it matter? She’s made it clear that she’s sticking to our original plan to keep one another at arms’ length. It’s best that I avoid her for a little, if that’s what she wants. “Listen, I’ve got to go, Pen. I’ve got the shoot to get to.”
“Right, yes. I’ll see you at the studio, okay?” She sounds genuinely worried. I’m going to have to put on a brave face when I show up to work. No one likes a surly model.
“Okay. See you in a little.”
I grab my bag and jacket and dash towards the door. This is going to be a long day.
But with a grimace, I remember that tomorrow will be even longer.
Twenty-Two
Riley
When I’ve finally trudged into the house where I’m staying, I’m relieved to see that Mrs. Hudson has left me a note, which means she’s not lying in wait, hoping to prod my brain with pointy sticks. She’d ask where I’ve been, who I’ve been with, what I’ve been doing, whether my parents would approve, whether my sister would think me a total whore, that sort of thing.
The note simply reads:
Off shopping, dear.
I did leave her a message two days ago, saying I was visiting a friend for a day or two. “Visiting” is the least sexy euphemism for “repeatedly getting laid” that I’ve ever used, but whatever. It’s none of her business, after all.
Once I’ve made my way upstairs to the flat, I pull open my laptop, slam my butt down on the couch and try to focus on my blog. I need some way to take my mind off what I’ve just done.
But all I can think about is the number of steps I achieved while stroking Galen off. Or straddling him. Or while he…
Okay, stop thinking about sex. Stop thinking about him. He is now an official memory. You had a fling. It’s over. Good-bye, English lover.
Loving Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 3) Page 14