Page 16 of Keeping London (Flawed Heart)

A throat clears, and I pull my mouth from Loïc’s as his body stiffens beneath mine.

Georgia stands behind Loïc, wearing the most amused smile. “Hey,” she half-whispers, “sorry to break up this hotness”—she moves her hand in a circular motion toward Loïc and me—“but Mom’s ready to leave, and I’m guessing, you really don’t want her to see this.”

“I’m coming,” I say breathlessly.

“I’m not surprised,” Georgia replies with a smirk.

“Oh my God.” I bury my head against Loïc’s shoulder. “Just go.”

“All right, but hurry up.”

“That’s lovely,” I say against Loïc’s chest.

“Better your sister than your dad.”

“Uh, definitely.” I chuckle dryly. “God, I wish we were alone right now.”

“Me, too. Don’t worry. I’ll make it all better tonight.” Loïc’s voice is tight and gravelly and oh-so sexy.

“Yeah, right. There’s going to be zero privacy this weekend.”

“Oh, we’ll find some,” he says reassuringly.

“I’m holding you to that.”

Loïc

“I need London—mind, body, and soul. Forever.”

—Loïc Berkeley

I step out of the limo onto a velvety red carpet that extends from the curb and up to the walkway, ending at the large front doors of the art museum. The shiny black Gucci shoes adorning my feet feel so foreign. Hell, this entire night is straight out of the what-the-fuck-am-I-doing playbook. These shoes probably cost more than I make in a week. And this tux? I can’t even think about it—or the fact that Mr. Wright insisted I keep the entire ensemble. What the hell am I supposed to do with a tux after tonight?

I don’t like it, any of it—the limo, the attire, the freaking red carpet.I mean, come on, how does all of this extravagance help people with ALS?

Turning, I extend my arm toward the vehicle behind me. London places her soft, small hand in my grasp. I meet her brilliant brown eyes before my gaze drops to her foot that just stepped out and the strappy black heel wrapped around it. My stare admires every inch of her as it roams up her killer leg that so perfectly stretches out between the revealing slit in her long red dress. I pull gently, helping her exit gracefully, and I pause a moment to take her in.

The lengthy dress clings to her body, accentuating all of her beautiful curves. Her hair is in loose curls that fall over the exposed skin of her back and shoulders. She’s simply breathtaking, the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen in my life.

I take a mental picture of London for when I’m overseas, one that I can pull up anytime I need to remember her. I want to cement this vision into my mind. But, more than that, I want to be able to recall the way being here with her makes me feel—fucking fantastic, whole, and just happy.

All right, so maybe this evening isn’t a total bust. I would do just about anything to be with this gorgeous woman beside me.

London loops her arm through mine. “Ready, handsome?”

It takes me a second to answer. “Yeah.” I nod.

We start walking toward the entrance. London waves and smiles toward the flashing cameras.

Seriously? Who needs pictures of this?Maybe it’s Stanford’s college newspaper crew. For the life of me, I can’t think of who else would need pictures of the people entering the benefit.

“Have I told you that you look amazing tonight?” I ask London once we get inside.

“Yes, you have—multiple times.” She grins. “Have I told you that you are the hottest guy in the world and that I want to rip that tux right off of you?”

I chuckle. “No, that’s a first, but I’ll take it. Have I told you that I want to push you up right there next to that plaster newspaper”—I point to a sculpture on a stand beside us—“pull this sexy little number”—my finger runs lightly up her dress—“up to your waist, and fuck you against the wall, so everyone knows you’re mine?”

“Ooh, no, you didn’t, but I like your thinking,” she answers playfully. “And I think that’s a bird.”

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