Page 41 of One Weekend in London

It had taken every ounce of the gentlemanly control my mum instilled in me not to toss her back on the bed and bury myself inside her, propriety be damned.

Even more so when she’d let the towel drop and reached for the sinful scrap of a black dress laid out on the chaise. The silk and lace clung to her bewitching curves as she’d shimmied into it, the daring slit revealing a tantalizing expanse of toned, tanned thigh.

In that moment, I’d known I’d made the right call in not fucking her senseless. She deserves to be lavished with attention and adoration, to be paraded on my arm for all the world to see.

To know, without question, she’s mine.

I sense her trepidation as we make our way to our private box, her steps faltering slightly on the plush red carpet. Pausing, I turn to face her, my hands coming up to cradle her cheeks, relishing the silken feel of her skin against my palms.

Cameras flash, nearly blinding me.

“What’s wrong, love?”

She looks stunned I’m even asking before beginning to worry her plump lower lip between her teeth, a nervous habit I’m coming to adore. “It’s just... I feel underdressed. All these people, they’re so fancy and I’m...” She gestures to herself, to the simple but stunning dress she brought with her from the States. “Well, I don’t want to embarrass you.”

I tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze. “You could never embarrass me. You’re the most beautiful woman at this theatre and in this whole bloody city. And I’m the luckiest man alive to have you on my arm tonight.”

A pretty blush stains her cheeks at my words, and I can’t resist brushing my thumb across the heated skin, marveling at its softness. I want to touch her more, to cup her nape and pull her in for a mind-numbing kiss.

But I refuse.

The vultures surrounding us can piss off before I allow them to capture such an intimate shot. Her eyes heavy-lidded and lips swollen from my bruising kiss is a sight I won’t share—except maybe on our wedding day.

“Promise?”

Her unsureness makes my chest ache.

“On both my life and my mum’s grave.”

“Okay.” Smiling sweetly, she ducks her head before looking back up. “Then take me inside, handsome.” She points up at the sky with her small bag. “Because it looks like rain’s coming. And I really don’t want to sit through an entire show soaking wet.”

I smirk and open my mouth to speak.

She quickly stops me, pressing a finger to my grinning lips. “Keep your filthy words to yourself,” she whispers, ensuring no one else can hear. “For now, at least. Later though? Game on.”

Encircling her wrist, I pull her finger away and kiss her palm before placing her hand back on my arm. “As you wish.”

I wink, before leading her fully inside.

Once at our box, we settle inside, the velvet seats plush and inviting against my Brioni tuxedo as Mark takes up his post outside the door, ever watchful and vigilant.

Needing to touch her, I help Sadie arrange the skirt of her dress so it doesn’t wrinkle, my fingers skimming the smooth expanse of her thigh, exposed by that blasted slit. She shivers at my touch, her eyes darkening with unmistakable desire.

Before I can act on the sudden urge to trace the split fabric higher, until I feel the heat of her pussy through the thin barrier of her knickers, a familiar voice interrupts us.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the man of the hour himself.”

I glance up, unsurprised to see Grant lounging in the doorway, a smirk playing about his lips. I admit, the wanker looks dashing in his tailored tux, every inch the debonair American playboy.

“I wasn’t aware you were still in town.” To my recollection, he was scheduled to leave for the States early this morning. “Don’t you have some starlet to seduce in Los Angeles before the mergers begin next week?”

“And miss the chance to meet the woman who’s finally snared London’s most elusive bachelor, creating a whole lot of uproar in London’s upper crust?” He glances at Sadie, his grin widening. “Not a chance in hell, Kensington.”

Sadie laughs, the sound warm and rich, and extends her hand, all proper and polite. “Sadie Winslow. Nice to meet you...”

“Grant Prescott, at your service.” The arsehole bows over her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. He’s just fucking about but I still want to take his head off for touching her. Much less pressing his lips to skin that isn’t his to touch or taste. “Your accent is music to my ears, darlin’. Georgia peach, if I’m not mistaken?”

She beams, clearly charmed and further pushing me to the brink of madness and murder. I’d hate to have to kill my best mate, disposing of his body in the Thames.

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