Page 48 of One Weekend in London

“Care for it? I demand it, love.”

His hands find the back of my thighs and he lifts me, my legs wrapping around his hips. Greedy for more of what he spent all night giving me, I wind my arms around his neck, our wet bodies pressed together.

As close as we are, it still isn’t enough.

I moan when he slants his mouth over mine, my world becoming nothing but the sweet slide of his tongue against mine, the reverent glide of his palms on my sensitized skin. Cemented in my very own heaven, all that exists in this lust-drunk moment is him and me.

Complete and absolute perfection.

CHAPTER 18

Sadie

I’m rooted firmly in contentment.

Standing alone in the penthouse’s kitchen, my hip leaned against the onyx countertop, I’m busy savoring an overflowing plate of biscuits and gravy, a little taste of Georgia in the heart of London, when I realize my defenses are quickly falling.

Rhys having Theo, one of his two private chefs, make me one of my all-time comfort foods, even though I’ve learned biscuits mean something else entirely in England, is yet another sledgehammer to the crumbling walls that remain, surrounding my healing heart.

The way he always thinks of me...

If his mama were still alive, I’d hug her so hard she’d never forget the feel of my arms around her, for raising such an amazing—in every way imaginable—son.

No doubt, she’s smiling down at him.

As she should be.

Across the penthouse’s open concept, Rhys paces on the balcony, his phone pressed to his ear as he conducts a heated business call. I have no idea who is on the other end of the line but I almost feel sorry for them.

Because he looks pissed.

But even when he’s clearly mad and in cutthroat CEO-mode, I could watch him for hours. The fluid way he moves, the play of muscles beneath his crisp dress shirt, the timbre of his rich baritone—everything about Rhys Kensington commands attention.

How on earth I snagged his focus...

The high pitch ring of my phone suddenly echoes through the room, startling me from my thoughts. Remembering the FaceTime fiasco with Rhys—even though this is just a regular call, not a video one—I check the number flashing across the screen carefully after pulling my phone from my pocket.

Only, I don’t recognize the number.

It’s a Garrison number though. Papaw maybe? Lord knows he likes calling me from random places like the barber shop or post office just to keep me on my toes.

I swipe to answer, then put it on speaker.

“Hello?”

Instant regret hits me. Hard.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my runaway fiancée.”

Ice floods my veins, my stomach plummeting all the way to the tips of my toes. Maxwell. Oh God. I should’ve known the two-timing snake would slither out of the woodwork the moment Tasha told me about Rhys and I being the talk of Garrison.

Back home, juicy gossip spreads faster than a fresh batch of Papaw’s peach-infused white lightning. And clearly, Maxwell’s heard all about it.

Courtesy of Cornelia, no doubt.

“What do you want, Maxwell?” I grip the edge of the counter with a shaky hand, my knuckles bleaching. “I’m a little too busy living my best life to deal with the likes of you.”

He chuckles coldly.

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