Page 28 of Finding London

In my life that has been full of disappointment, I’ve earned the right to be selfish, haven’t I?

Yet, even as these thoughts fill my mind, I know that makes me as bad as all the rest of the people that I’ve encountered that put their cruel needs above the happiness of others. It makes me a monster. I’m no different. I’m taking what I want when I know I’ll hurt her. What does that say about me?

I’ve strived so hard to be someone that my parents could have been proud of, someone different than the evil people I grew up with, I’m risking losing it all, losing myself, over a girl.

But she’s not just any girl, is she?

And then there’s the voice, the tiny whisper, that is barely audible. It tells me it could be different, I could be different, for her.

That small voice reminds me of the coincidental meetings, how the universe kept throwing her in my path. Words are heaved into my head—fateanddestiny. I loathe those words because, if they were real, if they existed, then that means I was meant for the life I was given. I was meant to experience such sorrow and pain. And that doesn’t sit well with me. No child should go through a fraction of what I did. Fate is a fucking lie, and destiny is its bitch-ass cousin. They hold no place in my world because, if they did, if I were destined for such loss, I probably would have given up a long time ago.

But that whisper gives me something else—hope. It’s so miniscule within my soul that I can barely feel it, but it’s there. It gifts me just enough hope to keep kissing her, just enough to continue to savor her, just enough to ignore the warning bells in my head, telling me that I should stop.

Just enough.

But, suddenly, kissing her isn’t enough. I need more. I have to touch her. With the way she is rubbing herself against my body, I know that she wants me, too. She needs it as much as I do. We are two of the same. Our wants are desperate, and our needs overpower our reason while our lust screams the loudest.

My callous hand slides under her shirt, finding its way to her bra. I run my finger under the curve of the wire. She moans into my mouth, pushing her pelvis into my leg, begging me to continue. I put my hand underneath the wire and push the fabric up until I can feel the weight of her softness in my hand. I run my thumb along the taut nipple before pulling and teasing it between my fingers. She squirms against me.

Our lips continue their assault on one another as my hand moves to the other side and repeats my movements. After I’ve paid equal attention to both of her breasts, my hand roams down her smooth belly to the waist of her jeans. I run my fingers along the waistband, feeling the excited tremor of her skin.

I break our kiss and find her stare. Her eyes are hooded, her lips swollen, her hair tousled and sexy. She nods, granting me permission.

With one hand, I unbutton her jeans and push them down enough to grant me access. I slide my hand underneath her panties, and she closes her eyes on a soft moan, her head falling back onto a pillow. I push two fingers into her entrance, taking pleasure in the warmth that wraps around me. I drop my head to her neck and breathe her delicate skin in as my hand begins to move. She grasps my arm and back, digging her fingers into my skin. Quiet whimpers come from her lips.

I drag my lips up and down her neck, kissing and sucking, unable to keep from tasting her. My fingers continue to savor her as the palm of my hand moves against her sensitive skin.

Writhing against me, she bites her lip, attempting to hold in her groans of pleasure.

“Oh God,” she whispers into the night air. “Please, Loïc, please,” she chants.

I love the way my name falls from her lips, the way she begs me to touch her when that’s all I want to do. It causes a storm of need to fill me up. My body threatens to blow with the sweet ache of all-consuming want. I’ve never wanted someone the way I want London. The intensity in which I need her is unsettling. It screams of devastation and loss, warning me to be cautious. But I ignore it all, except for her desperate pleas.

“Loïc,” she breathes. Her voice is so needy that she sounds like she’s in pain.

“I got you.” I kiss her neck as my hand picks up speed.

Her body quakes, and I kiss her lips, catching her cries in my mouth. My mouth continues to caress her lips until her body stops quivering. Then, I move my kisses to her neck once more as she takes in breaths of air.

That was the single most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced, and I know where London is concerned, it’s only going to get better.

I pull my hand from her pants and button her jeans back up. I’m propped up on one elbow as I stare down at her satisfied smile.

“You’re good at this first-date stuff,” she says, her voice airy.

I run my thumb across her cheek, simultaneously trying to figure out how I got here and how to never leave. I respond with, “I’m glad,” for lack of anything better.

“We could go back to my place, if you want?”

I know what she’s implying because I want it, too.

“Not tonight, London.”

“But another night?” she asks hopefully. “There will be a second date, right, Loïc?”

“That depends.”

“On?” she questions.

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