by Anna Durand
We say goodbye, for the last time, and I rush back to Elena's apartment.
She hugs me so hard I can't breathe, but I don't care. I bury my face in her hair and lift her off the ground. We kiss, then I drag her down onto the sofa and show her exactly how much she means to me, making her come three times right there in the living room. Watching her climaxes roll through her again and again is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
When Kyle comes home that evening, we tell him the news.
He grins, slaps me on the arm, and hugs Elena. "That's awesome, Ellie."
She eyes him like she isn't convinced he means that. "Are you sure you're okay with this? I'm moving to another state."
"New Hampshire isn't that far away. I can live in the dorms next semester. It might be fun."
"But you'll be all alone."
He laughs. "Come on, Elena, I'm an adult now. You don't have to take care of me all the time. Besides, I have a girlfriend and bros I'm real tight with. I won't be a poor little orphan boy all alone in the big city."
"Yeah, I know," she says, her eyes tearing up. "But I'll miss you."
"I'll visit you guys, don't worry." He hugs her again. "Go be happy."
Kyle lets go of Elena and pulls me into a quick, rough hug. "You better take care of my sister. If you make her unhappy, I'll have to do something about it."
"Understood."
He slaps my arm again. "Relax, that's the standard brother thing to say. You're cool, and I've never seen Elena smile as much as she does since you showed up."
I've been smiling a lot more too, since the night I first laid eyes on Elena and she recited German numbers to me. Our future is about to unfold, and I don't mind not knowing exactly what might happen. Whatever comes, we'll handle it together.
Once Kyle goes into his bedroom, I pull Elena into my arms. "Count to twelve in German for me."
She smiles and shakes her head. "Oh please, you couldn't have been serious when you said that was cute."
"I didn't say it was cute." I nibble on her earlobe. "I said I loved the way you pronounce the number twelve. Say it again, and I'll give you the sort of kiss that will make you come for me so hard you'll scream."
"A kiss can't do that."
"Sure it can." I flip her onto her back on the sofa, strip off her sweatpants and knickers, and squeeze between her thighs. I admire the rosy flesh in front of me, groaning with hunger when I see how wet she already is for me. "The lips I want to kiss aren't on your mouth."
"Oh, that kind of kiss." She links her hands above her head, shimmying her hips. "Zwölf."
And I kiss her in the most intimate way imaginable.
I can do this every night for the rest of our lives. I can hold her, kiss her, shag her, love her, and so much more. None of this would've happened if I hadn't seen her drop her head onto the hotel bar, looking miserable and adorable at the same time.
When Elena comes, that light she always has inside her explodes like a star going supernova. I want to watch her do that over and over, all night, every night, forever.
"Let's go to bed," I say. "And you can tell me what sort of house you want us to live in."
Epilogue
Elena
Three months later
I lounge on a cushy chaise, on the patio of the beautiful house owned by Chance's family, and watch my brother playing football with three Brits. Chance and his brothers got a kick out of teasing Kyle when they asked if he'd like to join them for a football match. Being American, Kyle assumed they meant the game in which large men wear huge shoulder pads and helmets and they carry an oval ball.
"Do you know how to play?" Reese had asked. He's the youngest brother, and according to Chance, the one who loves to orchestrate practical jokes.
"Yeah," Kyle had said. "I love football. Played it in high school."
"Are you a good kicker?" Dane asked. He's the middle brother and the most reserved one, Chance had told me, though he'd also said Dane enjoys a good joke as much as anybody.
"Oh yeah," Kyle said. "I love a good kickoff."
Chance chimed in to say, "Now remember, there's no getting your kit off until after the final whistle, or you'll be severely penalized. We play by FIFA rules."
"Fee-what?"
"The Fédération Internationale de Football Association," the love of my life said as if my little brother ought to know that already. "How can you be an experienced footballer if you don't know about FIFA?"
"Well... uh..." Kyle shrugged. "I guess you Brits have your own football association and gave it a Frenchy name. In America, we've got the NFL."
Reese grinned. "Does that stand for Nutters and Fucking Losers?"
And that's when I stepped in. They'd had their fun, but my poor brother was looking more confounded every second. The Dixon boys can harass Kyle more later, when we eat lunch and he hears the bizarre British names for the dishes offered to us.
"They're talking about soccer," I said. "Brits call it football."
"Are you serious?" Kyle asked. "These uptight dickwads think soccer is football? That's beyond lame, guys. Pushing a ball around with your feet is a game for girls."
Now, twenty minutes later, the four of them are kicking a ball around like old friends. They all decided to go shirtless for the game, calling it "the British way," though I know they were teasing my brother again with that claim. Kyle has already tackled each of the Dixon boys at least once, twice for Chance. I think my brother enjoys ramming into my fiancé. Chance can handle it. He might be a lawyer, but he's no slouch at athletics. With a body like that, of course he's a fantastic athlete.
He certainly has all the moves in bed.
I watch the guys for a while longer, admiring my hunky soon-to-be-hubby's bod---and, okay, his brothers' bods too. The Dixons are one handsome bunch. Their parents are good-looking too, but not buff. I met them this morning when Chance and I first arrived at the Dixons' home in the countryside, not far from London. William and Claire Dixon had greeted me with enthusiastic hugs. Nobody mentioned Raisa, but Chance's mom had said how happy she was that her son had found such a sweet girl. I took that as an oblique reference to his ex-wife, the antithesis of me.
Claire and William had excused themselves after that so they could make lunch for everyone. The Dixons might live in a big, spiffy old house, but they still do their own cooking. They have a housekeeper to do everything else.
The boys wander back to the patio. They'd left their shirts in a pile on the grass, and each grabs his on the way back to me. All but Reese pull their shirts back on.
Kyle tugs on his shirt while he trots up to me. He winks, then stretches out on the patio on his back, hands linked under his head.
Reese drops onto a chair, holding the soccer ball in both hands and turning it around and around. His shirt is draped over his shoulder.
Dane sits in a chair beside Reese and takes off his glasses to wipe sweat from his forehead with his shirt.
Chance takes the other chaise, next to me, and leans in to kiss me, holding his lips against mine for a blessedly long moment.
"Lucky me," I say when he pulls away. "Surrounded by gorgeous, sweaty Brits."
"Having fun?" he asks.
"Oh yeah. I could get used to this." I glance at his brothers, then smirk at Chance. "I could have my own harem."
"No, you cannot." Chance lifts my left hand to kiss the diamond ring glittering on my third finger. "You're my slave, remember?"
"How could I forget?"
Kyle snorts. "Oh please. Will you two ever get over the slave thing? It was cute in the beginning, but I'm about ready to report Chance to the cops for running a sex trafficking ring."
Yeah, ever since Chance and I got engaged, Kyle has relished every opportunity to torment us with sarcasm.
Chance's brothers are no better.
"Where can I get my own slave?" Reese asks, still turning the ball in his hands. "I've asked for volunteers, but o
ddly, nobody wants to sign on for the job. How did you ever convince Elena to serve you?"
"She doesn't serve him," Dane says. "She services him, like an old car that needs constant maintenance."
"And plenty of lubrication," Reese adds with a sly grin and a wink.
"That's enough," Chance says. "You've harassed the Americans enough. Give them at least an hour to recover before you start in again."
Looking at Chance, who's sweaty and smeared with dirt, I can't resist. I have to say, "You need a shower, honey. Your personal mechanic insists on it."
"Give him a good wash and wax, Elena," Rees says, tossing the ball onto the lawn. "I need some maintenance too."
I lay my hand on Chance's thigh. "Sorry, I only service one vehicle."
"Enough car jokes," Chance says. He gets up and offers me his hand. "Let's go, love. I'm feeling filthy."
I let him lead me into the house and to the bathroom. Within thirty seconds, we're both naked. I thank heaven the Dixons have a large bathroom with a shower plenty big enough for me and my honey.
He grabs a bar of soap. "You first."
Chance and I have showered together many times, since we moved to a house in New Hampshire that has a generous-size shower. We've got our law practice there too. Sure, I'm the lowly paralegal in the eyes of most people. But Chance and I are partners in every way that counts---at work, at home, and in our hearts.
A few months ago, in a hotel bar, I'd been offered one hot Chance and taken it. I will never regret that. And yeah, that pun is intentional.
During lunch, we all talk about the wedding. It's in two weeks, and we're having it in America so Chance's family can see our home in New Hampshire. They've never been to America before, since Chance always flew to England to see them---because Raisa hadn't wanted to entertain guests. I'm looking forward to hosting the Dixons, and our house is plenty big enough to hold Chance's parents and brothers along with Kyle and his girlfriend, not to mention our friends.
When I explain about the guest rooms in our house, Reese says, "You used to live in New York City, didn't you? That's where you met Chance."
"Yes, I shared an apartment with the most annoying roommate ever," I reply, flashing Kyle a sarcastic grin. "That would be my darling brother."
Kyle points his fork at me. "Watch it, sister. I know what you and Chance used to do on the living room sofa."
I expect Reese to make an off-color joke, but instead he says, "I'd love to see New York."
The conversation moves on to other wedding-related topics.
Later, Reese corners me and Chance in the sitting room.
"About your apartment," he says to me. "Have you given it up? Or rented it to someone else?"
"No, I haven't sublet it or given it up. Kyle might want to live there over the summer, before he goes back to the dorm in the fall."
Reese studies both me and Chance for several seconds, then he asks, "Could I stay there?"
"At my apartment?" I glance at my fiancé, but Chance simply shrugs. He's leaving the decision up to me. I tell Reese, "Sure, I guess you can do that. We left all the furniture there, so it'll be kind of like a cozy hotel."
"You mean it?" Reese asks. "I can stay there?"
"It's all yours."
"Brilliant!" he says, grinning, his eyes alight with excitement. "Imagine all the girls I can meet there."
Oh boy, those New York ladies are in for it. When Reese Dixon lands in America, every unmarried woman better hold on to her panties. He'll melt them with one wicked smile.
Chance certainly had that effect on me. And he still does, every day.
Reese trots out of the room shouting, "Dane! Guess what? I'm going to shag a New York girl just like Chance did."
Chance arches one brow at me. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Probably not."
Heaven help those New York girls.
Chance's Version
One Hot Chance
Chapter One
I've never believed in fate, so I can't blame the universe for the trouble I find myself knee-deep in tonight. Why did I ever agree to work for my ex-wife? Even temporarily? After meeting with her this evening to discuss my new role in her firm, Raisa Volkov & Associates, I don't feel excited about my new job or even interested in it. No, I feel like the blokes I see in the hotel restaurant who look like they've just had their balls strangled by my ex-wife. Her law firm is in the building across the street. And this is the closest place where those men can get drunk.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I stop halfway across the lobby to consider those blokes who are downing hard liquor like it's the first liquid they've had in months. Maybe I should join them.
Yes, wouldn't I feel so much better tossing back glass after glass of vodka in a bar filled with lonely, pathetic men whose testicles have shrunk to the size of peanuts.
I scan the restaurant, growing more depressed by the second---until I spot a woman sitting on a stool at the bar. She looks as miserable as I feel. Her hair glistens in the subdued lighting, and the way her skirt molds to her body shows off her beautiful figure.
She glances around the restaurant, and her expression becomes even more miserable.
That look. I must wear the same one. Seeing that woman, so alone and dispirited, makes me want to march over there and cheer her up.
How will I do that, exactly?
She drops her head onto the bar, facedown, and waves her hand when the bartender says something to her.
The impulse to go over there becomes too powerful to ignore. I force myself to walk at a normal pace instead of rushing like I want to do. When I reach the woman, she still has her face on the bar.
"Are you all right there?" I ask. She doesn't move or make a sound, so I lay a hand on her arm. Her creamy skin is soft as silk. "I said are you all right?"
"Mm-hm." She peels her face off the bar, blinking rapidly like she's struggling to make sense of what she sees.
The beauty of her face and of those caramel-colored eyes steals my breath and my ability to speak. All I manage to do is smile.
She smiles back. "I'm fine, but thanks for asking. I love polite British men."
I lift one brow and can't help smirking. Didn't she just say she loves me? Well, men like me. British men. "How do you know I'm polite? I've barely spoken five words to you."
"Seven, actually. Unless you count the ones you said twice, which would mean eleven words. Not including what you said a second ago."
A charming blush colors her cheeks. She shifts her gaze this way and that, then bites down on her bottom lip. She seems embarrassed by what she said, which only makes me want to drag her into my arms and kiss her. What on earth am I doing with this woman? I should be upstairs getting pissed in my suite, not flirting with an American woman who makes my cock get hard when she smiles. I should walk away.
But I lean against the bar because I've clearly lost my mind. "It's comforting to know you're intelligent enough to count to at least eleven."
"I can count to twelve in German."
"Can you?" I want to hear more of her lovely voice, and I don't give a toss if she babbles nonsense to me. "Let me hear it."
She slants toward me. "Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs, sieben, acht, neun, zehn, elf, zwölf."
"Say zwölf again. I love the way you pronounce it." I lean in so close I can see the darker rims around her golden-brown irises, and I brush hair away from her face. My fingers graze her skin. "Say it again, please."
The sexy angel grins. "See, you are polite."
"For the moment." I trail my fingertips down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. "Say zwölf again, and I'll kiss you."
I need to kiss her. Those lips tempt me, and suddenly, I want to do much more than kiss her.
"What if I don't want to kiss you?" she asks, though her tone is sultry.
I drag one finger across her mouth, slowly, sensuously. "You do."
She licks my finger. "Zwölf."
Fuck, the way she says that word, in that throaty tone... I can't stop myself. I slide a hand into her hair, pull her face closer, and kiss her.
Her lips, they're soft and warm and faintly slick. I explore those lips with my mouth and tongue, sampling her skin that tastes like mint. Maybe she uses flavored lip balm or lipstick or whatever they call it. I don't care, because all I want is to feel this woman's mouth on mine for days, weeks, maybe forever, until she melts in my arms. When I slip my tongue between her lips, she does just that. She melts into me, her breasts mounding against my chest, while I tease and devour her until my cock is so hard that the need to fuck her overpowers all my common sense.
I pull away, but only a little. "Come to my room with me."
"What?"
"Come with me, upstairs, to my room." I catch her bottom lip with my teeth, swipe my tongue over it, and release her flesh little by little. "You're the most adorable creature I've ever seen, and I want to make love to you all night long."
"Oh God, yes. Let's go to your room."
I glance at the margarita sitting on the bar. "Do you want to finish your drink first?"
"No, I'm done with it."
Thank heaven for that. I can't wait one more minute to have her, so I sling an arm around her waist as she slides off her stool and hooks a large purse over her shoulder. I guide her across the lobby to the elevator with her sensual body hugged to mine and my hand on her hip.
The elevator doors open. Three people hurry out, leaving the car empty.
We get in, and the doors glide shut.
I turn toward her, still hugging that luscious body. "Can't wait. I'm on the nineteenth floor, which means we have time."
"Time for what?"
Can't speak anymore. I back her up to the wall and possess her mouth, thrusting my tongue deep, until she moans and latches her arms around my neck. Christ, she tastes incredible, feels incredible, and the sensation of her body molded to mine drives me past the line that separates reason from madness. I swipe my tongue around hers like I can't survive without the flavor of her in my mouth, like her soft lips and her agile tongue are the only things keeping me alive.
