Page 51 of Keeping London (Flawed Heart)

It’s the single hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and I can’t help but stare in amazement. His muscles are tight with a shimmer of sweat as his stroke slows, and I can’t help but think that he looks like a Greek god, my freaking Adonis. He’s so perfect, and he doesn’t even know it.

He lifts his head, and his eyes open to find mine.

We stare in silence. It’s easy to know the thoughts going through his mind because they’re the same ones going through mine.

Finally, I break the silence by saying, “We are definitely doing that more often.”

He throws his head back again but this time in laughter.

His body moves from the camera as he grabs a towel. I do the same. After I clean up, I put my clothes back on to find Loïc dressed and waiting on my laptop screen.

“So…how was it for you?” He smirks.

“Surprisingly amazing,” I answer. “You know, I thought it was going to be a little awkward, but honestly, it wasn’t at all. I just imagined you and I together. It wasn’t as good as having you here with me, but it was a close second. How was it for you?”

“Bloody brilliant!” he exclaims with a goofy grin.

I laugh.

“English-accent worthy, huh?”

“Fuck yeah, baby. That’s as good as it gets over here. You’re right, we’re absolutely going to be finding time to do that more often.” His face goes serious before he asks, “What did I do to deserve you?”

“You were yourself, and you, Loïc, my love, are pretty incredible.”

On instinct, I reach my fingers out to touch the screen. His hand rises until his fingers are touching his screen almost seven thousand miles away. It’s not the same, not even close. But, if I concentrate hard enough, I can almost feel him, the real him, and it’s the most fantastic sensation in the world.

London

“If Loïc were anyone other than who he is, I would be hooking up with the Calvin Klein model in front of me at this very moment and writing my Dear Loïc letter in the morning.”

—London Wright

I understand why Dear John letters are so common. I truly do. The fact of the matter is that long-distance relationships suck.

Like, really blow.

If Loïc were anyone other than who he is, I would be hooking up with the Calvin Klein model in front of me at this very moment and writing my Dear Loïc letter in the morning. Loïc would be nothing more than some fond memories, tinged with a splash of regret.

But, lucky for the both of us, he’s not someone I can replace. He’s a once-in-a-lifetime love that I know I will never find again if I let him go.

So, instead, I swing back my hand and let my open palm strike the gorgeous man across his cheek. His hand flies to his face where he rubs the spot I just hit.

“What the fuck?” he yells at me with anger as his eyes bulge.

“I told you that I didn’t want to dance,” I state the obvious, shrugging my shoulders, as if smacking hot men in clubs is something I do on a regular basis.

“And that gives you the right to fucking hit me?” he screeches in rage, his voice rising more than one octave.

“Your hand on my ass sure does. Chances are, if I don’t want to dance with you, I surely don’t want you groping my ass.”

He inhales, his chest expands, as if he’s about to let a slur of obscenities fly my way, before he blows the air out in a huff and stomps away from me.

I’m about ninety-nine percent sure though that I hear him say, “Bitch,” as he goes.

“Londy, he was so cute,” Georgia whines beside me, pouting out her lips.

“Yeah, but I have Loïc.”

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