Page 31 of An American in London

If I’m honest, when Ben suggested a movie back at his place, I was expecting it to involve less silver screen and more nakedness. But warm buttered popcorn and A Duchess for a Duke will have to do. For now, at least.

“This is the bit in the rose garden,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.

We’re sitting hip to hip on the oversize velvet sofa in his screening room.

There’s been no kissing, which is disappointing, but I hope that will happen before the credits roll.

He probably thinks I want to watch the movie.

Which I do ... but I wouldn’t choose it over kissing Ben.

That must say something about the way my feelings for him seem to be blooming.

Watching this movie with me must be beyond irritating because I can’t help but tell him what’s about to happen.

“See how he watches her? He finally gets it.” I roll my eyes. “Finally! Men are so dumb sometimes.”

“Dumb?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I say, exasperated. “Like, he must know how she feels. It’s been building between them for so long.”

“Maybe he has doubts,” he says, taking the carton of popcorn and grabbing a handful. “Not about how he feels, but whether kissing her is the right thing to do.”

Silence circles us and I can’t help but wonder whether we’re still talking about the film.

I turn so I’m staring at the side of his face, then he turns and our gazes lock; it feels like each of us is waiting for the other to speak.

The tension between us sparks, and my heart thrums in my chest, sending vibrations throughout my body.

How could he doubt that kissing me is the right thing to do?

“But he knows her,” I say, my voice sounding throaty to my own ears. “Better than anyone. They’re so connected.”

“That’s how he feels. But he doesn’t know if she feels it too.”

“Of course he knows.”

He shakes his head, his gaze dropping to my lips and then back up to my eyes. “He wants to be sure. She’s been through a lot and he has all the power. He doesn’t want to fuck it up.”

“He won’t fuck it up,” I whisper.

He smooths a strand of hair from my face. “Sure?”

I nod. “Kissing her is absolutely the right thing to do,” I say breathlessly.

He tosses the popcorn bucket behind him and cups my face.

My nipples harden and graze against the lace of my bra, and I squeeze my thighs together. I nod and he sweeps his lips against my cheek.

“Here?” he asks.

“Everywhere,” I say on a sigh.

He lets out a guttural moan and presses soft, slow kisses up my neck and along my jaw, each one eking out more and more sensation. He pulls away for a second and checks my expression.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. “And I ...” He frowns. I know that he has more to say, and I want to hear it all.

He moves to kiss me again and I stop him. “You, what?” I ask.

He doesn’t reply for a second or two, his gaze flitting from my eyes to my lips, lower, then up again. “I really like you,” he says finally.

I nod. “Yeah, I really like you too.”

He swallows and I watch the bob of his throat. I reach for him, smoothing my fingers down his neck, wanting to be closer to him, desperate to feel him from the inside.

“Tuesday.” He cups the back of my head with both hands and presses his lips to mine. I sink into him, half drowned in him, thankful that this is where we are right now.

Tentatively, I place my hands against his chest, and he pauses, just for a fraction of a second, like my touch has interrupted his circuitry, and it takes him a second to reconnect his brain to his body.

His mouth pulls from mine, plowing a path along my jaw, his fingers pressing, his tongue more insistent.

He sweeps his hands down my arms and presses me down, flat on the sofa, so I’m on my back and he’s over me. His eyes are hooded, and I can feel his need, his desire for me. It’s coming off him in waves. I have to have him, or a part of me will be left empty for the rest of time.

“I’ve waited so long ...” He trails off.

“I know,” I say. “I want this too.”

He shakes his head. “You can’t possibly want me as much as I want you.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Feeling his yearning sends heat to my core. Like he’s bringing me to life after years spent waiting. “You’re wrong.” I hold out my hand and he threads his fingers through it.

He slides over me, both of us fully clothed but our barriers abandoned.

Our hips lock together and I can feel him against me, and I’m more aware of each part of me that he’s touching.

His body over mine magnifies every sensation, coaxing fire to life in places I’ve never felt it before.

I worry I might combust if he stays here, on top of me, but I might wither and die if he doesn’t.

I need him. He shifts over me and I try to muffle the sound that echoes from me at the feel of him so close.

“I want to hear every sound you make, Tuesday,” he says. “I want to know all of you.”

I sigh as his lips resume their journey, pressing and pulling, licking and sucking. A coil inside me winds tighter and tighter, every touch tethering us closer together.

He pulls my shirt from the waist of my skirt and skims his teeth along my stomach.

The connection leaves a trail of heat—he’s a lit match and I’m a twist of paper.

I roll my hips, trying to feel more and less at the same time.

The buttons of my shirt are undone, but I’m so dazed I don’t remember how they got that way.

Ben is licking and pressing and my blood dances in my veins, my heartbeat throbbing . .. everywhere.

He sweeps his hands up my thighs and under my skirt, then hooks his fingers into my underwear and tugs them down, just enough that he can slide his palm over me. He groans as he feels how warm I am.

How wet.

How completely ready.

My hand winds in his hair and we stare at each other, understanding where we are: at the point of no return.

But I don’t want to go back.

“More,” I whisper. “I want everything.”

His hand rocks over me, his fingers finding more of my wetness. I arch my spine as sensation washes through me. Such a small touch ... How will I handle more?

He dips and scrapes his teeth over my nipple. Even through the fabric of my bra, it sends sparks across my vision.

“Ben!” I cry out. He’s pulled me to the event horizon in just a few seconds; any further, and I will fall and fall and fall.

I’m not ready.

And he knows.

His mouth moves to my collarbone, but his hand stays, his fingers smoothing and dipping ... It’s just a step away from too much.

I reach for the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. I pull at them, finally freeing the fabric. I grasp him, pulling at his shoulders and waist, impatient for more, eager to quench this thirst I have for him.

He takes his hand from my underwear, sucks in a breath and pulls off his shirt, then slips the rest of mine off, tossing both onto the floor beside us.

As he kisses me, our tongues entwined, I splay my hands across his hot, hard back, trying to feel as much of him as I can.

His pulse hammers against mine, like they’re competing against each other in a wild race both are guaranteed to win.

Now skin against skin, his weight on me, his heat all around me, I begin to melt underneath him. I wrap my legs around him and he groans.

I can’t help but smile. I want to collect all his sounds and put them in a jar that I can open when I need a little more of him. When I need to feel him raw.

“Fuck, Tuesday,” he hisses.

“I know,” I say.

“Will we survive?” he asks, and I laugh, even though I know he’s entirely serious. The same question has crossed my mind too.

“I think so,” I say. “And if not, so be it.”

His hand slides behind my ass, and he tilts me up, toward him, so I’m as close to him as I can get.

But it’s not enough.

I circle my hips, trying for more, but there’s too much fabric in the way still. I reach for the waistband of his jeans and try to push down.

“I need you,” I say and our eyes catch. “Now.”

In seconds our clothes are gone, discarded somewhere, and we’re finally where we need to be.

He has a condom from somewhere, and I watch him, my skin buzzing, my breathing shallow as he rolls it on.

Our eyes meet. It’s like he’s waiting for me to say no, to change my mind. Doesn’t he know that’s never going to happen? He nudges between my legs, and I splay my thighs wide, desperate for him. Our gazes are locked as he presses into me, and I’m full with his heat.

He pauses, his jaw tight. I watch the pulse in his neck, reach and press a finger against it, then pull him closer so I can feel it with my tongue.

He starts to move. I bring my hips up to meet his with every thrust so it goes deeper and harder and more than I ever thought possible.

I see the understanding on his face, and it’s exactly how it feels in my chest—like this is exactly how we were meant to be.

This is how it was always meant to be. His movements feel more desperate; he pushes harder and harder, and everything is black and white and bursts of light.

I can’t think about anything but this and him and us.

I grip his shoulders, digging my nails into him because I don’t want him to be able to ever get away.

“Fuck!” he calls out and I know it’s not a complaint. I know he’s feeling what I’m feeling, and the thought makes me tighten.

He shifts, moving to sit back on his heels, bringing me with him so I’m sloped away from him. He pulls me deeper onto him, pushing his hips against mine, connecting over and over.

He reaches for me, pinching my nipples, pulling slightly, and I groan, throwing my hands over my head. He shifts again, pulling me up so I’m sitting astride him. My head tips back as he lifts and lowers my hips, each time sinking lower, feeling fuller.

“So deep,” I say—to myself, to him? I’ve lost control. All I can do is feel.

We’re face-to-face, our bodies pressed together, our lips connecting every few seconds in clumsy half kisses as our orgasms rattle in the distance, threatening to thunder after us and break this spell of sensation we’ve cast.

“Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday,” he whispers. My name on his lips breaks the last thread of control I hold.

I’m not sure what day it is, let alone what time. When my alarm goes off, at first I think it’s a fire alarm. Then I have to remind myself where I am.

In bed.

With Ben.

Our bodies are intertwined, and as I pull my limbs from his to reach for my phone, he grumbles in his sleep and pulls me closer. Eventually, I manage to grab the phone and silence the alarm.

And then I realize why it’s going off. It’s not morning. Not a decent hour anyway. I’m meant to go on a Daniel De Luca stalking mission at his hotel as arranged with Melanie. This is my one opportunity to see my previous obsession in the flesh.

“I have to go,” I whisper as I watch Ben, his expression no less stern because he’s sleeping.

He doesn’t say anything, just reaches for me and pulls me toward him so my back is against his front. We’re side by side, spooning. His hand skates up and down my thigh, and it’s only when it dips between my legs that I realize he must be conscious.

“Ben, I have to leave.”

“Don’t,” he says, as he brings my leg back to rest on his thigh, opening me wide.

“Stay.” He presses a kiss to my shoulder and his hardness nudges my entrance. My brain is frazzled.

“For just a few minutes.”

He chuckles into my neck. “You’re never going to want to leave when I’m done with you.”

He’s probably right. I’m not sure anything—not even Daniel De Luca—could make me want to leave Ben’s bed.