Page 27 of Finding London

Loïc

“Fate is a fucking lie, and destiny is its bitch-ass cousin.”

—Loïc Berkeley

The conversation moves away from our sex lives, and for that, I am thankful. I barely know London, yet I have the incredible urge to pummel the face of every man she’s ever been with. A rabid beast has awoken in me, and I just want to hurt anyone who has ever touched her. I’ve never been possessive over a woman.

Why now? Why her?

I’m not sure of the exact answer. One thing’s for sure. London is different. From the first time I saw her face and heard her voice, I’ve felt something real for her. Maybe it’s an extreme version of lust. If I’m honest, it freaks me the hell out.

I’m in uncharted waters, and I want out. I don’t do well without control, and where this girl is concerned, I have very little. But I can’t stay away. I tried to cancel today’s date—she was right about that—but I didn’t have the courage to do it. I had to see her one more time.

I bag up the food we didn’t eat and put it back in the cooler. “Do you want more wine?”

“Sure,” London replies, handing me the cheap plastic wine glass.

It’s incredibly cheesy—the picnic, the plastic dishes, the bed of my truck made into some sort of chic country lounge—but she seems to appreciate it.

I pour her another glass of wine and grab a bottle of water for myself. We position ourselves against the pillows in the center of the truck bed.

“I’m surprised you’re not drinking. You could use your tipsy state to cop a feel and then blame it on the liquor.” She grins.

“And that move works?” I counter, raising an eyebrow.

“Depends on who’s using it, I guess.” She takes a sip of her wine.

I watch in awe as her cherry lips press against the glass, taking in the liquid.Gah, what the hell is wrong with me?I shake my head to get the vision of London’s throat swallowing out of my mind.

“I don’t need an excuse to touch you, London. If I touch you, it will be because you want me to.”

Her eyes go wide at that statement. The corner of my mouth tilts up into a smile. London is such a strong woman, and she goes after what she wants. It’s one of the aspects of her personality that I find so appealing. Yet I love when I say something that stops her in her tracks even if it’s only for a moment. It’s oddly invigorating.

The movie starts, and we set our drinks on the wheel well, so we can lean back against the pillows. The night air carries a bite, and I cover us with a light blanket. The theater plays back-to-back movies. Both of tonight’s selections are action flicks, which I thought sounded good for a first date.

I’m on a motherfucking first date. London has another one of my firsts.

We both wiggle around to get comfortable, repositioning the blankets and pillows beneath us. Finally, I lay my inner arm out, and London falls back onto it, arranging her body tightly against mine.

Time passes, and I realize that I haven’t followed a second of the movie.Who gives a damn about the movie?

Instead, I find myself listening to London’s breaths while relishing the way her body feels against mine and the warmth it brings. It’s a relatively still night, but the air that does move around us bears her scent. Her hair smells like vanilla paired with fruity sweetness. She’s also wearing some sort of perfume that’s as intoxicating as it is alluring.

Everything about this woman fascinates me. No amount of denial or refusal could prevent it. Most confusing to me is, the attributes I find appalling on other women, I find captivating on London.

I’m losing my mind. That’s all there is to it.

I take in her facial features. It’s dark, but with the light from the movie screen, I can see her profile. I scan from her chin to her full lips and move past her small nose to the long lashes that I know frame the most mesmerizing eyes I’ve ever seen.

She must feel the weight of my stare because she turns on her side so that we are facing each other. “Don’t like the movie?” Her voice is a low purr.

“Something like that.”

A storm of lust rises inside me. I position myself on my side so that my hands have access to her. I thread my fingers through her scalp. I pull her face toward me, and I meet her halfway before crashing my mouth onto hers.

The sexy whimper that comes from her fuels my desire, and I deepen the kiss. Our lips nip and pull. Our tongues twirl and taste. Our mouths devour, taking what they want. The kiss is desperate and sensual, loving and rough. It mirrors the short relationship that I’ve had with London—so back and forth at every step, full of equal parts want and fear. Most of all, the kiss is saturated with undeniable need, a need that only London has ever given me.

Beneath the blanket, our hands roam above our clothes. I feel the feminine curves of her body, and I draw it all in, committing every last detail to memory. I want to know everything about London. I want to remember every inch of her body—each dip, each curve, each beautiful piece. To me, she is perfect, and perhaps that’s why I can’t stop myself when I know I should, why I can’t stop myself when I know I’ll eventually hurt her.

---