Page 53 of An American in London

He turns to look at me, as if seeking out visual confirmation I’m telling the truth.

“I promise,” I say. I tilt my head, and he drops his gaze to my neck as if he’s wondering how it would taste.

But it’s complicated. We both know it.

I also know I want him to kiss me again, and if he wanted to peel off my clothes and lick me from neck to ankle, right at this moment I’m unlikely to say no. At the same time, we’re guests in someone else’s house, he’s trying to focus on achieving something that, for whateverreason, is incredibly important to him, and I just got out of a serious relationship. “There are lots of reasons not to act on—”

I don’t get to finish my sentence, because Ben slides his large hands around my waist and pulls me onto his lap. He cups the back of my head.

“I have this urge to touch you all the time,” he growls out, coiling his fingers around my bare thigh. His skin against mine is so electrifying I’m frightened to move in case I burst into flames. Yes, we’ve held hands and touched in small, intimate ways, but somehow in this room tonight, everything feels different. Bigger.

I turn toward him and place my palms carefully on his chest, slowly, in case he has the urge to stop me or I change my mind.

But he doesn’t. I don’t.

I feel the heat through the white cotton of his top, but it’s not enough. I want to feel his skin. I skim my fingers down, down, down, dipping my fingertips under the hem of his T-shirt to his hard warmth.

“I know. I feel it too.” My voice is fractured and strained, like I’m six thousand feet above sea level and can’t catch my breath.

Finally, he gives me the oxygen I need, pressing a kiss to my mouth. As our lips join, I melt beneath him, like ice against his flames. His touch burns every other kiss I’ve ever had from my memory, and I know from now on, I’ll only remember him. I’ll onlywantto remember him.

He pulls at me, maneuvering me on his lap so my legs are either side of his hips, his hardness beneath me. I sigh and my muscles unlock. We’re not pretending anymore. This feels so perfect, so right, like I’ve been waiting to come home to him and now I’m right where I’m meant to be. He tucks my bottom closer to him, and we slot together, our hips and chests pressing against each other. The thin cotton between us acts as the final barrier, and although it’s flimsy, it’s the only thing stopping Ben from owning me completely.

His hands drift up to the sides of my breasts, and I tip my head back, my entire body throbbing. Desperate.

I gasp. Because this—just this, the kissing and the closeness—is almost too much. We’re still fully clothed, and while things might seem pretty PG from the outside, on the inside? On the inside, we’re three seconds away from a nuclear explosion. My hands on his chest, I twist in his lap, circling my hips. He cups my breasts, his thumb grazing my nipple under the cotton.

“Ben,” I choke out, almost overwhelmed with sensation.

He lifts his hands, holding them out like he’s surrendering. I’m endlessly grateful and heavy with disappointment at the same time.

We press our foreheads together as if we’re trying to take a beat before exploring each other. Except we’re connected everywhere.

“This needs to ... We should ... We can’t do this here,” he says, finally finding his words. “Not now.”

I get it. He’s making the right decision, but I’m not quite sure how I’ll survive around him for another second without wanting more and more and more. And if not now, when?

Chapter Eighteen

I fold the note Ben left me on the nightstand, put it in my wallet, and then head out. I’ve slept in and it’s nearly nine. In his note, he said he would come and wake me if I needed to be up, but I feel terrible lazing away the morning in bed. I’m getting paid to be here. The least I can do is be awake. When I think back to last night, I can’t help but smile at the memory of his lips, his hands, his body against mine and the unspoken promise that we’ll pick up where we left off another time.

I see Grant coming toward me as I reach the bottom of the stairs. “They’re in the breakfast room,” he says with a smile. “Just down on your right.”

Moving down the hall, I glance at the wall opposite, covered in paintings. There’s a gold label attached to some of them, and I lean in to readDuke of Brandon. The painting is clearly hundreds of years old. I can’t imagine what it must be like to fill the shoes of your predecessor, to grow up knowing exactly what life has planned for you.

I have to call my dad as soon as I’m back at the hotel tonight.

Farther down the hall, I hear chatter behind a closed door. I twist the brass doorknob and open it an inch so I can see whether I’m in the right place. Someone pulls the door wide. It’s the duke. “Good morning, my dear. Welcome, welcome. We’re still waiting on my wife, but we’re not standing on ceremony. Let’s get you some tea.”

I catch Ben’s eye; he smiles and heads over. It’s the same smile as yesterday—the one with the dimple—and it’s completely infectious.

“Good morning,” he says as he approaches. I grin back at him reflexively, like I’m under his spell. I’ve spent enough time with Ben to know he’s not this good of an actor—he’s pleased to see me. And the tingling in my body that travels from every corner of me and heads right to my core tells me I’m pleased to see him too.

“I didn’t want to wake you.” He lowers his voice so he speaks just to me, and it feels so intimate I could be standing there in my bra and panties. He places his hand on my shoulder, and the heat from last night roars back to life. We lock eyes and I know he feels it too. He presses a kiss to the top of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I slip my hand to his waist and hook my thumb over his hip bone.

Boundaries have begun to blur. I can’t tell what’s for show and what’s real. I can almost believe we’re a newly engaged couple, come to stay with friends for the weekend.

Except I know I’m being paid.

---