Page 16 of One Weekend in London

Now it’s me who rolls my eyes.

I should’ve known Tasha would call right back.

I can just see her, running outside or somewhere private to video call me, thinking I’ll give her the scoop without Lillian and Papaw at her side. Unlike the latter two, she doesn’t have boundaries.

Not to mention, she’s as nosy as can be.

But let’s be real, she gets it honestly.

Turning around, I lean over the wooden chair I vacated seconds before and, once again, answer without bothering to look at the number flashing across the screen.

Click.

“Seriously, Tasha, I told you three I’d call—”

The words die on my tongue when my eyes lock on the prettiest pair I’ve ever seen. Eyes that take me in, heated desire flaring to life in their mesmerizing depths as they linger on my bare shoulders before slowly sliding down to my bra-clad chest.

Oh my God. This can’t be happening!

A whole new panic careens through my veins, crashing through me as the voice in my head screams at me to cover up. With a sheet off the bed, a curtain from the wall, heck anything. But I’m a statue, held captive by the weight of his smoldering stare.

“Rhys?” I choke out, though it takes a Herculean effort. Like the rest of me, my voice is held captive, imprisoned deep in my clogged throat.

A slow, devastating smile spreads across his sinfully gorgeous face, sending my already pounding heart into a wild gallop, each beat feeling as though it might crack a rib—or two.

His gaze dips lower, tracing the curves of my body like a physical caress, igniting a fire in my veins that threatens to send me up in flames, consuming me.

When his eyes finally meet mine again, they’re dark with promise, with a hunger that steals the breath from my lungs.

“Hello, love.” That voice of his—I fear the sound of it’s enough to drop me to my knees without hesitation. The man truly is flat-out dangerous. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything... important.”

The way he says the last word, all husky and full of insinuation, makes me shiver.

I open my mouth to reply, to ask the million and one questions burning my tongue—the most prominent of them being, how did you get my number?—but no words come. I’m utterly trapped in his orbit, my brain short-circuiting under the sheer intensity of his unfaltering focus.

Heaven help me, I’m in trouble.

Big, British, panty-melting trouble.

And I don’t think I want to be saved.

CHAPTER 7

Rhys

Christ, she’s stunning.

Sadie’s breathtaking beauty, barely concealed by tiny scraps of silk, demolishes my well-honed control. Her lush curves beckon, tempting me beyond reason. I’ve admired my fair share of gorgeous women, but none have captured me so wholly, nearly shattering my restraint with a single glance.

I visually devour her, wholly and completely.

The graceful column of her neck. The perfect swell of her breasts, straining against plum-coloured fabric, made for my hands and mouth. The dip of her waist and the delicate flare of her rounded hips, ones I long to sink my fingers into as I drive into her welcoming heat, giving her every inch of my cock.

My deepest fantasy come to life, I fully intend to make Sadie mine.

Her bright eyes widen, pink suffusing her cheeks as awareness hits. “Wait a minute! How did you even get this number?” Brows bending, suspicion sets in. “Are you some kind of stalker?” She doesn’t give me the chance to respond. “Hells bells, you’re not a serial killer, are you? Because listen here, I may have wanted to tour London, but I have zero—and I mean zero—desire to meet the present-day equivalent of Jack the Ripper!”

As if I’d ever hurt her.

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