“You sound very like a nanny I once had.”
“Had being the operative word?”
“A gentleman never kisses”—pressing my lips to the curve of her breast, I’d allowed my next words to vibrate against her ribs—“and tells.”
She gave in to a satisfied-sounding sigh, her next words more purr than anything else.
“From now on, I think Britishness will be synonymous for dirty to me.”
“I hope you mean that endearingly.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to hear the accent without blushing. Not after the shocking things you’ve said in this bed.”
My God, her blushes. Just thinking about those twists something inside me.
“Just the things I’ve said in the bed?” I’d teased.
“And maybe the shower.” She’d ducked her face into the pillow.
“Water absolves,” I’d purred, unable to keep from touching her, “It washes clean.”
“It didn’t do such a good job with you.” From the depths of her pillow, one dark eye had peeped open, a little mascara stained and full of mischief, the cheek not squashed into the pillow a delectable pink.
“This blush.” Reaching out, I’d traced the path of heat. “It gets me every time.”
“Gets you what?” Her taunt was telling. So very telling.
“It gets me hard.”
“Want to watch some Downton Abbey with me?”
“I’m not sure what that is.” I know what it is now, of course. And the ten minutes I’d watched wasn’t nearly as riveting as it was watching her skin be revealed inch by inch. I’d pulled the sheet down her body so slowly, revealing the flare of her hips and the depressions low on her spine, matching the dimple in her cheek.
“It’s like you’re from another world.”
I remember how I’d paused at that point. She’d no idea how accurate her statement was. Another world far removed from hers. Another world that isn’t always hospitable to those not from within.
“I’m an alien?” In hindsight, I realise this isn’t at all what she’d meant. And after watching an episode of Downton Abbey, I’m not sure alien isn’t more flattering. Did she mean another world or another time?
“I just mean you’re not like most Brits I’ve come across—”
“Do you make a habit of coming across British men often?” I’d pressed my mouth against her bicep, a pulse washing through me as I’d felt muscle there. I’d wanted to push her back, spread her out, discover what other layers I might’ve missed.
“Do you turn everything into innuendo?”
“Only when I’m enjoying myself. But you’re talking about the stereotypes, the tea-drinking, crumpet-eating, polite and mannerly bunch. That’s just for the tourists.”
“To get the tourists into bed?”
“Only heathens eat crumpets in bed, Holland. Just think of the crumbs.”
She’d giggled then, at least until I’d trailed my fingertip down her spine and over the swell of her buttocks. She had such a magnificent arse, as I recall. What I wouldn’t give to have it in my hands again.
“But as a race, we aren’t truly polite. We’re nearer to the rude as fuck edge of the scale.”
“Which sounds all the more so in that accent.”
“I don’t have an accent.”
“Of course not. But you’re just trying to distract me from our game.”
“I still think there are much better ways to get to know a person than guessing things about them.” Much more intimate ways.
“So you’ve said. But we’re taking a break from physical activities. That was your idea.”
“A man of my years—”
“Has plenty of fuel left in the tank.” She’d traced a finger up my chest and over my chin, though snatched it back as I’d made as though to bite.
“You are very . . . bite-y.”
“I think it’s more to do with the meal.” My gaze meandered once more along her curves, just to be sure she was aware of the exact source of my hunger. “You didn’t seem to mind.”
“It wasn’t a complaint. It was an observation.”
“Then observe how I find myself revigorated.” I’d growled as I’d stretched along the bed, a stretch that became one fluid motion as I’d moved onto my back.
Holland’s gaze dipped to where the sheet tented over my erection, her eyes suddenly dark. “So shameless.”
“So says the woman staring.” I’d run my hand over the sheet-covered head with a groan. “I do so appreciate a brazen woman.”
“So, your father doesn’t work in finance.” Her voice was an octave or two higher, and as I’d turned my head, her gaze lifted from where I stood hard.
“You don’t really want to talk about my father.” Neither did I. Ever if I can help it. “Not when you’re staring at my cock.” I’d sent her a look that suggested she think less about my position in life and more about my position in this bed.
“You’re . . . living off an inheritance?”
I’d barked out a laugh. On my father’s death, lots of things were left to me in trust, but of money, there was very little.
“You run your own business,” she suggested next, smiling and warming to her distraction tactics.
“Are you asking or telling me?”
“Telling.” Her gaze narrowed speculatively. “I can’t imagine you taking instructions.”
“I can take instructions. When the conditions are right.”
“What conditions are they?”
“I should’ve said it takes the right incentive.”
“Y-You’re not from London.” Red-cheeked, she’d glanced away while fighting a smile. “But you live here.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I guess because there’s something not entirely English about your accent. Something that blurs some of your words around the edges.”
“A foreign spy,” I’d drawled, even as I was struck by her attention to detail. She had an unusual ear for accents.
“Who? You or me?” she asked.
“You blush too much to be a spy.” I’d settled my hands behind my head. I’ve always preferred, where I can, to be anonymous, so I brought the conversation back to her again.
“Or do I?” she said in some approximation of mysterious.
“Oh, you definitely do.” I’d pointedly glanced at the inevitable flush of pink highlighting her cheeks.
“It could be part of my disguise.” Her reply was a touch defensive as she’d turned onto her side. Heat licked through my belly, my balls drawing tight as her lush figure was bared to me again. At least until she pulled the sheet over her breasts, catching the edge securely between her arms and ribs
“I think the point of a disguise isn’t to draw attention.” As though anyone would fail to notice her kiss-plump lips or be captivated by her gorgeous colouring.
“Oh. Come look at the pink-cheeked freak?”
“I thought I was the freaky one.” That had been one of her mid-orgasm compliments when I’d gotten a little too close to . . . I push away the thought. I’m never going to get to explore that part of her. Noticing the papers still in my hands, I straighten them, then rap them sharply against the top of my desk. But Holland’s voice whispers to me from my memories again.