I wasn't entirely sure anymore who was the bull and who was waving the flag because as he sucked my tongue into his mouth and pulled a whimper from my lungs, it felt like we were charging headlong at each other, destined for a collision of epic proportions.
His hands ripped at my clothes, mine did the same.
There was very little finesse as teeth tugged at lips in sharp bites. He gripped the flesh underneath my leggings in big, grasping hands, and he muttered dirty words into the skin of my neck when I shoved his zipper down and wrapped my hand around him.
The clean shirt fell to the floor, and he tugged my bra strap off my shoulder, sucking kisses covering the hot skin he found underneath the black lace.
I writhed against the wall, trying, trying, trying to scramble higher, get closer, touch more of him.
His kisses were dirty, his tongue alone making me see stars as he pushed it rhythmically against mine. I tugged fiercely on the strands of his hair until he pulled back. His hair was a disaster, his lips swollen from my kisses.
"Look at you," he whispered. With surprising tenderness, he brushed his knuckles along my collarbone. "Bloody gorgeous."
Was it a cliché to admit in my head that a man like him, with the eyes and the smile and the muscles, saying I was bloody gorgeous in that accent had me ready to do backflips if that was what he asked for?
"Bed. Now."
At my command, he grinned.
He walked us over, and when my ass hit the bed, he didn't immediately fall on top of me. He towered above the bed, staring down at my half-naked form sprawled over the comforter.
"Leggings. Off."
I raised an eyebrow at his return command, but my hands slowly pushed them down my hips. He sucked in a sharp breath when I kicked them off. My fingers trailed a delicate circle around my belly button, and he bared his teeth like I'd just shown him something delicious that he couldn't wait to devour.
His jeans were shucked off quickly, and I tried to keep my eyes from widening.
Because hot damn, he was bloody gorgeous. No, it didn't sound as good in my head with my boring American voice, but when Jude covered himself and prowled over top of me, I didn't care if it didn't sound as good in my head.
I stopped thinking altogether and let him warm the parts of me that were cold, let him suck and kiss and taste.
I let him pin my hands down on the bed.
I let him push my thigh up over his shoulder.
I let him roll his hips in sharp snapping thrusts until I screamed in back-arching relief.
Say words and phrases into my skin that I'd never had a man say to me.
And before long, after he shouted my name and stared down at me like he'd just seen a glimpse of friggin’ heaven, I let him sag on top of me, sweat-soaked back and muscle-covered arms slick against my own skin.
I let him kiss me softly as we both came down from an impossibly high peak. My heart hammered in my chest, and I had the thought that I should get up. That I should get dressed and go get on the train.
He pulled away from my body, and I winced, which made him grin unrepentantly. I slugged him in the arm, and he laughed, pulling me back into his arms.
"I should go," I whispered even as my arm slung over his abs, and I kissed the skin over his still-pounding heart.
"Just stay for a little," he whispered back. "I'm not quite ready for tonight to be done, love."
My eyes drifted shut. "Just for a little."
Everything caught up with me when I did. Exhaustion seeped into my bones, from the day and this unexpected evening, a lovely weight tethering me to that bed.
Just for a little.
It was my last thought until the sun rose.
Chapter Four
Lia
What a cliché.
When you pry your eyes open to an unfamiliar room with the unfamiliar weight of an unfamiliar man's arm over your waist, it's one thing. But when all of those things hit you after you realize that you've spent the night somewhere you shouldn't have, jeopardizing the first meeting with your intellectual idol, it's enough to make a grown-ass woman break down into tears.
"Shiiiiiit," I muttered under my breath.
A quick glance over my shoulders revealed Jude, sound asleep in all his naked glory. In the bright light of the next morning, he was so beautiful it wasn't even right.
The blanket he'd pulled over us only covered him to his waist, and Lord, his chest and abs were enough to make me pause when I really didn't have time to be pausing. His pecs were the size of freaking dinner plates, and each neat square of muscle lining his stomach was holy shit perfect. What a waste to spend the entire night with a body like that and only enjoy it once.
I wasn't embarrassed that I'd slept with him because, after that experience, I don't think any woman would have doubts. That was scream it from the rooftops sex. But even with that knowledge, I inched my way out of the bed slowly, doing my very best not to wake the sleeping hottie.
What I didn't want was the awkward exchange. He'd said it himself; the appeal of the entire exchange was the anonymity. He knew nothing about me, and I knew nothing about him. And I wasn't particularly in any position to start anything, even if he wanted.
As I tugged on my leggings and looked back at him again, his big hand sprawled over his muscled chest, I wasn't sure my pride could handle it very well if he brushed me off upon waking. My shirt was in a heap by my feet, and when I bent over to pick it up, he moved, groaning deep in his chest before he rolled onto his side.
The groan. I had to close my eyes when I thought of him making that sound the night before.
Yeah, I'd be retelling the story of that night for generations because I'd earned the right.
At one point, I had a vague recollection of that voice groaning, bloody perfect.
A sound from the street below had me snapping out of the post-coital recollection because I needed to get my ass to Paddington to catch a train back if I had any hope of getting to my meeting with Catherine Atwood on time.
She'd offered me this chance when I met her at one of her guest lectures back home in Seattle, and no way was I going to blow it because a hot guy made me see stars.
Not only would I be a cliché but I'd also kick my own ass for my stupidity.
With my purse and jacket tucked tightly under my arms, I paused by the bar cart when I spied a napkin and a pen.
Just in case you need more sports tips, I scrawled, followed by my cell number. It was enough finality that I could walk away from the tiny room without obsessing. There'd be no questioning whether I should message or call or casually drop by the pub for another pint because I had no way to reach him. With a deep breath, I closed the door quietly and crept down the stairs. When I turned the corner, I froze when I spied the bartender sitting at one of the stools.
His eyebrows rose slowly, then he cleared his throat, turning his attention back to the white mug sitting in front of him.
"Good morning," he said.
"Morning." I motioned to the door. "I'm guessing you can lock up behind me."
He rolled his lips, clearly hiding a smile as he nodded.
"Good." I hitched my purse.
Carl, I think his name was, turned slowly on the stool. His cheeks looked a little pink, and I found his embarrassment more endearing than I should. His eyes could hardly hold mine as he stood. "Coffee for the train, dear? I've got a takeaway cup."