Page 73 of An American in London

I enjoy the space he leaves in our conversations for me.

I enjoy the way he’s so considered and considerate in what he says.

I enjoy being withhim.

But our fake fairy tale is over. And real life involves me leaving the country in two weeks.

I go to open the car door, but I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to walk away from him. I’m not ready.

I turn to him and he’s staring at me, his eyes hooded and intense, like he wants to devour me. “Wanna see the flowers you sent me?” I ask, not quite sure how to ask a man up to my hotel room.

He shakes his head and doesn’t offer any further explanation.

“Oh,” I say. “You probably need a good night’s sleep.”

He shakes his head.

“You don’t need sleep?”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he says. “But what do you need, Tuesday? Do you need sleep?”

It’s my turn to shake my head this time. What I need is him. “I’d like some of this cake you like to give out so much.”

A grin curls his mouth. In record time I’m in my hotel room, my back against the door, my skirt up around my waist, and Ben’s face between my legs.

As my orgasm rockets through me, I crumple around him. He scoops me up and carries me the few steps to my bed.

“You give really good cake,” I whisper. I’m exhausted already.

“I like making you come,” he says matter-of-factly as he pulls my dress from my body. “And I think you like it too.”

Flutters of longing scatter through my body. How can I keep wanting more of this man? It’s like no matter how much of him I gulp down, it doesn’t quench my thirst. Is it because time is running out for us? If I lived in London, would it still be like this?

“It’s okay to ask for cake, if cake is what you want,” he says as he lies down next to me on his side, fully clothed. His hand skates over my skin, between my breasts and down between my legs.

“What about you?” I ask. “I just got cake. What do you want?”

He shakes his head. “At this moment, Tuesday, I’ll take anything you’re offering.”

And at the moment, I want to give him everything.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tonight isn’t a date. Ben and I are just meeting for a debrief, but it’s all I’ve been able to think about today. I haven’t seen him this week because he’s been busy at work, and I’m trying to keep my head clear so I can think straight, but the abstinence hasn’t ripped the Band-Aid off. It hasn’t even lifted a corner.

I’m fully dressed and sitting on my bed, waiting for him. My phone buzzes and I jump to my feet like it’s someone knocking on the door.

I slide my finger up the screen and see a message from the duchess saying she’s heard our news and would like the two of us to meet for tea.

I close the message, just as another one arrives from Ben, telling me he’s in the lobby.

A ripple of something radiates from my stomach, pushing out and up every limb, over every inch of skin. I don’t know if it’s nerves or excitement, but I bite back a smile and head out the door.

There’s only me and one other couple in the elevator. They’re American, and from her Valley girl twang, I’d say they’re Californian. Tourists. They’re going to love it here. I don’t feel like I’m visiting anymore. I know my corner of London too well. Plus, I’ve been invited to tea with a duchess, and I’ve hooked up with a British guy. At this point, I’m a step away from trading in my American passport.

The elevator doors open on the lobby, and I lock eyes with Ben.

He stalks over to me and kisses me on the cheek. He does it with a little too much force, like he’s been impatiently waiting the entire week to kiss me and overcompensates. I step back to steady myself, and he catches my elbow.

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