Page 39 of London's Calling: Part 1
“Something dirty,” she says salaciously, twisting away from my reach when I try to tickle her. She turns to face me, walking backwards and waving her finger at me. “Nah-uh, no slapping the tush,” she admonishes, knowing exactly what I was thinking.
“The tush?” I say, screwing my face up at her lame word choice.
“Yeah, tush. I’m a lady, you know.” The pitch of her voice rises and her pronunciation more formal.
I lunge at her, snatching hold of her waist before she can escape. “A lady, huh?”
“Yes, a lady,” she says as my fingers bunch up her robe and slip a hand beneath it. “A lady who will wither away if she doesn’t eat?—”
“Something more than my cock, m’lady.” I growl, burying my head in her neck and nipping at the delicate skin of her neck.
She giggles, trapping my head between her neck and shoulder as she tries, unsuccessfully, to stop me. “You’re disgusting,” she cries as I bend her over, trailing my mouth down between the opening of her robe, nudging the material aside and seeking out a nipple. Finding what I’m looking for, despite her best efforts to stop me by pushing at my shoulders, I wrap my lips around her nipple and suck it into my mouth, eliciting a deep groan from her.
“Oh god…Mickey,” she moans while somewhere upstairs a phone begins to ring.
I don’t stop immediately, letting the hand holding her arse slide down to slip my fingers between her thighs. The ringing stops, but starts again almost instantly, and I reluctantly release her nipple.
“Someone is keen to get hold of you,” I say, raising her to an upright position.
“It’s my stomach ringing to demand I feed it.” I laugh, releasing her, and she pulls her robe back over her uncovered breast and reties the belt tighter, then she points to a bunch of menus pinned to the fridge. “Pick whatever you want. Just order me something.” Then she disappears upstairs to see who is calling her.
The menus are all mine, so I find the one for my favourite Thai and place an order. One of the things I love about London is the extensive choice of food available to order. I put the menu back and open the fridge, hoping Roni has something to drink. Grabbing a couple of beers, I pop the tops using the bottle opener on the wall beside the fridge. Turning to head into the lounge, I spot an empty bottle on the side.
“No fucking way!” Placing the beers on the counter I reach over and pick the bottle up, spinning to check the label. There really isn’t any need because I know exactly what it is.
“Did you—” Roni’s words come to an abrupt stop when she sees me holding the empty bottle of whiskey.
“You drank my 1991 Don Ramsey Glenfiddich?”
“Er…yeah,” she says with a grimace. “Was it expensive?” I look at the bottle then to her. “Sorry,” she says, but it comes out as more of a question than an apology.
I put the bottle down and pick up our beers, then I stalk toward her. When I reach her, I hold out the bottle for her. She wraps her fingers around it, and I pull it back, forcing her to step into me, and as she looks up with a raised brow, I say, “You owe me, Ice Queen, and I plan to collect later.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. And just so you know, I’m more than happy to pay the price.” There’s promise in her words, and the heat between us builds.
I had used her nickname to distance myself from her, from whatever the fuck is going on between us, but she batted it away like an irritating fly. Because, truthfully, she is far from an ice queen and much more reminiscent of a black widow, weaving her web around me and luring me into her trap.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Roni
I break our stare, feeling so many things, things I shouldn’t feel—things I can’t afford to feel. But I feel them anyway. I turn away from Mickey, stepping toward the lounge, but he catches my wrist in a caressing hold. I roll my head to the side, looking at him.
“You good?” he asks, a small frown creasing his brow.
“Course. Come on, let’s sit while we wait for the food. You did order food, right?”
He laughs. “Man, if you could see your face right now.”
I scowl at him. “Do not joke about food with me, Rawlins.”
“Aww, poor baby, would I do that to you?” he asks oh so innocently.
“Hmm, jury is still out on that one,” I retort, moving for the large sofa. I drop onto the luxurious suede, tucking my feet under me as Mickey sits beside me, one knee bent and the other on the floor, facing me. I take a mouthful of my beer, hoping to wash down the taste of betrayal coating my throat.
The call just now was Clayton informing me that we have dinner arrangements with his parents on Monday—wait for it…so I can discuss wedding plans with his mother! Part of me is surprised he’s even considering involving me in our sham of a marriage while the other part is sick at the prospect of spending an afternoon, or any time, with him and his family.
“So, what did you order me?” My stomach growls at the same moment just to cement my desperation for food.
