Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
It was fantastic. I refuse to believe a second of our time in bed together was forced or fake.
There has to be some other reason she’s decided to bolt.
But what?
I lie on the mattress beside her, staring a broody hole through her sleeping head, wondering how she manages to be so transparent and completely unpredictable at the same time?
I don’t know, but it makes me irritable.
And excited.
And frustrated.
And fascinated.
A terrible combination that feels an awful lot like the first flush of falling in love…
Chapter Six
EMILY
Iwake to that kind of pink, December morning light that makes everything look romantic.
Even epic mistakes.
But damn, what a gorgeous mistake…
For exactly five seconds, I let myself enjoy the warm weight of Olly’s arm draped across my waist, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, the calligraphy of his swoop of an upper lip.
His mouth is a thing of beauty.
And so skilled at delivering orgasms, it should come with a warning label: Caution—May Cause Pleasure so Intense You’ll Wake up Hoarse from Screaming this Man’s Name.
His name…which I still only know half of.
The thought chills the warmth kindling between my thighs.
I still have no idea who Olly really is. Or how he pays for this luxury flat. For all I know, he could be a drug dealer who rules the London suburbs with a rakish smile and a switchblade. Or a wickedly charming City solicitor who’s priced out every family-run shop on the high street.
Or—even worse—a crypto bro with a podcast.
The thought makes me shudder. I have to get out of this bed and pull myself together. Make a plan. Get my business trip back on track.
Figure out what time it is…
I glance toward the bedside table, but my phone isn’t there.
My stomach knots. Did I leave it at the pub? Or, even worse, somewhere outside in the snow? The chances it could have fallen out of my coat pocket while Olly and I were vigorously making out against that lamppost are greater than zero.
Far greater.
Shit!
This is bad. Very bad!
What the hell were you thinking, Emily Katherine Darling?
The answer is, I wasn’t. For one glorious night, I stopped making lists and analyzing consequences and threw caution—and my panties—to the wind.
But morning always comes, and with it, the resurrection of all the real-life problems that didn’t magically vanish in the heat Olly and I generated between the sheets last night.
Anxiety continuing to creep in on stabby needle feet, I ease out from under his arm and slip from between the covers. My bare feet hit the cold floor, the chill helping to banish the last of the morning-after glow. Yesterday’s clothes are scattered around the room and out into the hall like evidence at a crime scene, looking even more rumpled and pathetic in the light of day.
I gather everything quietly and tiptoe out to the living room with its breathtaking views of snow-covered London. There, between the couches and the gleaming modern kitchen, my roller case waits by the door, miraculously intact despite our chaotic entrance last night.
Thank God for small favors and sturdy luggage.
The guest bathroom is decorated in a tasteful mix of bamboo and recycled glass tiles that’s giving Luxury Spa, but my Zen remains thoroughly out of reach. I quickly change into fresh clothes—cream-colored wool pants and my lucky red sweater, the one I was wearing when I landed two high society weddings in one day last fall. My hair is a disaster from going to bed with it wet, the curls flat on one side and coiled into ringlets on the other. I dig through my toiletry bag, making do with a small bottle of sea spray curl refresher. I would wet my hair and try again, but all my full-sized curl products are missing in action, along with my checked baggage.
Stupid London airport.
Stupid lost luggage.
Stupid sex hair.
Still, I can’t fully regret the sex hair, even as I tie my curls back with a poinsettia print silk scarf that looks more “fussy old lady” around a ponytail than it does when knotted at my neck. Last night was, without a doubt, the best sex of my life. No contest.
I mean, it’s not like I’ve had all that much sex, especially recently, but my college boyfriends were both very committed to leaving it all on the field in the bedroom. They tried, bless them, though their efforts often had little effect until my vibrator joined the fun.
I’d just assumed I wasn’t a particularly orgasmic person. That maybe I was too uptight to fully relax into the experience. Or that perhaps I’d ruined my clitoris for human hands and tongues with too much mechanical stimulation and would be dependent on a vibrator to “get there” for the rest of my life.
But no.
I just needed an Olly between my legs.
Olly’s fingers, Olly’s tongue, Olly’s…