Big Love Abroad (Big Girls Do It Book 11)

by Jasinda Wilder

  As he shut the door behind me, Lucas flicked a switch, illuminating a surprising and unexpected interior. Based on the outside, I was prepared for low ceilings, wood paneled walls, a threadbare couch, maybe some aged wallpaper and a thin carpet. Old, dated, but homey and comfortable. When Lucas turned on the lights, I caught my breath. The walls were painted grey, a few shades darker than slate, which set off the dark, polished, gleaming hardwood floors. The ceiling must have been nine feet high and was painted flat white. A white leather couch with a matching easy chair and loveseat were centered in the room around a flat-screen TV positioned on the wall above the fireplace. Track lighting lit the room, curving in elegant arcs that spotlighted black-and-white photographs and minimalist pencil sketches. The artwork on the walls, both photographs and sketches, depicted a myriad of everyday scenes—St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, the Bodleian, the London Eye, Stonehenge, pigeons on a sidewalk, crows on a wire, people clustered on a subway car, a train arriving at a station platform, a pair of old battered boots on a welcome mat.

  I moved into the living room, slowly perusing the artwork. “Who did these photos and drawings?” I asked.

  Lucas shrugged out of his blazer and set it on the back of one of the dining room chairs. “Oh, those? That’s a hobby of mine.”

  I eyed him in surprise. “You did these?”

  He lifted a shoulder in casual dismissal. “Yeah. Like I said, just an idle hobby, something to do other than read and whatever. Summers between classes, I roam around the UK with my camera and a sketchbook. It’s just for fun.”

  “They’re really good, Lucas,” I said. “Really impressive.”

  He smiled at me. “Thanks. I don’t show many people. It’s not a big deal. I only do it for my own pleasure.”

  I glanced into the kitchen, where the simple decor of more clean lines continued, with shades of black and white and gray. “I thought we were going to dinner?”

  His grin this time was…slightly predatory? Amused? I couldn’t quite pin the expression down. It gave me shivers, though, of equal parts anticipation and eagerness and even a little fear. I mean, I knew this guy even less well than I’d known Ian, whom I had spent the entire flight from Detroit to London talking to, giving me a chance to get to know him beyond initial impressions.

  “Oh, we are. I just thought we’d have dinner here. I’m not a gourmet chef, but I can put together a pretty good meal.” He glanced at me. “Is that okay with you? We can still go out somewhere, if you’d prefer.”

  I shrugged, going for more insouciance than I felt. “We can stay here.”

  “Good. I’ve been saving a bottle of wine for a special occasion such as this.”

  He moved into the kitchen, pulled open what I’d thought was a pantry door but which turned out to be a makeshift wine cellar. It had been a walk-in pantry at some point in the past, I was pretty sure, but had been retrofitted to hold several dozen bottles of wine. He pulled out several bottles one after the other, glancing at the labels, and then replacing them, finally finding the one he was looking for.

  I glanced around as he searched through the bottles. “So. You own this place? It’s pretty nice.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, my parents are…pretty well off. When I moved to Oxford, they bought this place for me so I wouldn’t have to deal with dorms. Made it much easier for me long-term.”

  “I bet it did. So you live here full time, then?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I do,” he answered distractedly. “Ah, here she is. An oh-nine Le Fleur Petrus.” He carefully opened the bottle and set it aside. “We’ll let that breathe while I get started.”

  I glanced at the bottle, but the label was in French. “So that’s a special wine?”

  Lucas was pulling things out of the fridge. “What? Oh, yes. Well, it’s rather a good vintage. One of the better wines to come out of the Medoc in recent years.”

  “You might as well be speaking Greek, Lucas,” I admitted.

  He just laughed. “Oh. Well, no matter. If you’re interested, I could explain some of the finer points of proper wine appreciation, but I’m not going to bore you if you don’t really care.”

  “Well, maybe you could tell me some of the basics. I like wine, but I’m not, like, a sommelier or anything. I just drink basic, average wine.”

  “Well, the first thing is that you don’t just tear open a bottle of fine wine and dump it into a glass. There’s a process to it, a…well, it’s rooted in tradition and ceremony, but it also has a functional process which is to bring out the best notes and flavors. You have to uncork it, let it breathe. Some wines, if they’re old enough and expensive enough, have to be poured over a special kind of filter, because the wine will have bits and pieces in it. And after it’s breathed for a suitable period of time, you pour it slowly, gently, so it doesn’t glug, right? You may notice, if you ever order wine at a nicer establishment, the server will twist his wrist as he pours. That’s not just to be fancy, it’s so the wine doesn’t drip or glug. You also need proper goblets for certain kinds of wines. There are red wine glasses and white, each designed to let the wine reach its fullest potential.”

  As he spoke I noticed there were two flanks of beef marinating in something dark. Lucas placed them into a broiling pan, poured some of the marinade over them, then popped the pan in the oven. After washing his hands, he began making a salad, using fresh spinach and romaine, walnuts, shredded cheese, cranberries, and some kind of balsamic dressing. Every motion was fluid and practiced, not a single movement wasted. “Wine is…each vintage has its own personality, subtle undertones and overtones, notes and flavors, and a refined palate can identify all these things. Wine is meant to be savored, slowly, languorously, even.” His eyes roamed over me, turning his words into a double entendre.

  I held his gaze boldly. “Seems like a lot of work just for a glass of wine.”

  “It is, but for truly excellent wine, it’s worth it.”

  “So. Show me how to appreciate a fine wine, then.”

  He selected two large goblets from a cabinet, held them up to the light to make sure they were clean, and then set one on the counter. The other he held in his left hand, lifting the bottle with his right. Holding the glass at an extreme angle, almost horizontal, Lucas very slowly and carefully poured the dark ruby-colored liquid into the glass, twisting his wrist gently as he poured, then righted both bottle and glass to cease the flow. It was neatly done, with the practiced adroitness of someone who had done it a thousand times. He repeated the action with the second glass, only partially filling each glass.

  “Now, before you take your first sip, I want you to close your eyes—in fact, hold on. Stay here.”

  The kitchen was small, with a stretch of counter just long enough to allow two stools to be placed side by side. The counter divided the kitchen from the combined dining room/living room, and from the small hallway where one bedroom and the bathroom were located. I stood facing the kitchen, with my back to the main rooms, the goblet of blood-red wine held up to my nose, sniffing it, trying to decipher the “notes and undertones” he’d mentioned. I just smelled wine, but maybe my palate wasn’t refined enough.

  I never heard him approach. One moment I was alone, the next I felt long fingers on my shoulders, and I inhaled sharply. And then the fingers were feathering though my hair, pulling it back away from my face, tucking the loose strands behind my ear. The scent of cologne filled my nostrils, layered over the herbs and spices he was cooking with. His chest was pressed lightly against my back. My breath caught in my lungs.

  “Close your eyes, Nina.” His voice was coaxing, smooth and baritone and lightly accented. I closed my eyes. Cool silk touched my face, then it was pulled taut. I felt motion at the back of my head, indicating that Lucas was knotting the tie. “Can you see anything?”

  I opened my eyes, seeing blackness. “No. Nothing.”

  “Good. Focus inward now. Smell. Taste. Touch. Sight can lie. Sight can mislead. Sight can distract.” His voice was ba
rely above a whisper, so I had to strain to hear him. I felt some part of him slide past my arm, reaching past me, perhaps. And then a cool glass touched my upper lip, filling my nostrils with a pungent fragrance. “What do you smell?”

  I inhaled. “Wine.”

  “Clearly. But the bouquet, what does it smell like to you?”

  I tried again. I inhaled deeply, trying to pry individual notes out of the aroma. “Um. Berries?” That was stupid. It was wine, of course I smelled berries.

  “Good. What kind of berries?”

  I blinked behind the tie, turned my head and exhaled, returned my nose to the rim of the glass and inhaled again, more slowly this time. I felt Lucas rotating the glass, swirling the wine beneath my nose. This time, somehow, I detected something other than the general fragrance of the wine.

  “Red? Like cherries, maybe? And I think maybe I can smell…blackberries. There is something else too, I don’t know, spicy?” I let him swirl the wine again, and then I sniffed once more. “Chocolate?”

  “Very good.”

  “Am I making this up, or are there really all these different scents in the wine?”

  “Those are the notes that most connoisseurs would find as well.” I felt the rim of the goblet slide slowly down from my upper lip to be fitted between my lips, the glass tilted. “Take a small mouthful. Just enough to cover your tongue. Don’t swallow it right away, though. Taste it. Feel it.”

  Moisture on my lips, aroma in my nose—cherries and plum and chocolate—and then the taste, no, not the taste first, the texture. It felt…thick. Full. Ripe. As if something warm and velvety and smooth was sliding sensuously across my tongue, filling my mouth with an explosive presence. There really was a texture to it, something beyond being merely a liquid. I rolled the wine across my tongue; let it play over my tastebuds. Holy shit. The flavor was a burst of intensity, ripe fruit, something almost sweet, a richness. The more I truly tasted it, focusing on the flavor, the more I became aware of many different impressions that I had no words for, no way of identifying or describing. It was an overwhelming rush of sensation, blindfolded with the cool silk of the tie, heat from Lucas radiating against my back and over my neck, his breath on my skin, the rich wine caressing and luxuriating in my mouth, the scent of food cooking.

  And then I felt lips on my skin just beneath my ear, where the back edge of my jaw met my throat, gentle lips, warm and damp, pressing in and hesitating, sliding. I tipped my head back, baring my throat; a hand slid over my breastbone, up and up, cupping the side of my face, two fingers framing my ear, fingertips in my scalp, buried in my hair, a thumb grazing across my lips.

  Breathing seemed ridiculous and superfluous.

  I heard the scrape of glass against marble, glass against teeth, a swish of liquid as Lucas took a sip from his own glass. I finally swallowed my mouthful of wine, remembering to breathe, tasting the wine as strongly as if it still rested on my tongue, flavors lingering, traces of tannins, yes, languorous luxurious flavors flowering on my tastebuds.

  And then he kissed me, and it was all soft lips and wine remnants and his hand on my face and our breath tangling, the soft scratch of his beard against my cheek and somehow my hand was on the back of his neck, reaching for his ponytail and undoing it, letting his hair fall against his shoulders. He kissed me, and it was slow, deepening, drowsing. There was no urgency in the kiss. I began facing away from him, and then I twisted to get a better angle, nudging my cheek into his palm and then, after a few hammering heartbeats of a kiss’s breath, I twisted yet more and faced into him, his chest against mine, and still we kissed. Still we kissed.

  Then the kiss was over, and I was left wanting it still. I was left with bated breath, blindfolded, lips parted, heart crashing wildly. The blindfold fell away. Lucas with his hair down…not quite unkempt, just messy enough to be sexy, the hair kinked where it had been bound by the elastic, brown waves framing his face, brushing the tops of his shoulders.

  “Time to eat.” He smiled, a slight curve of his lips, a promise of more to come.

  We ate. The salad was simple but delicious, the broiled meat moist and tender, complimenting the lush red wine perfectly. There were baguettes of bread, crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, steamed broccoli tossed lightly with melted butter and seasoning salt. It was all simple but tasty, expertly prepared. And once again, rather than falling into endless conversation, we merely ate, the clink and scrape of silverware the only sound, eyes often flicking up, meeting, looking away, maybe a smile exchanged.

  I had a moment of disorientation: for a moment or two, I felt as if I’d already been here, done this, eaten this meal with this man, as if sitting here in companionable silence and eating and drinking was utterly familiar, as if I’d always done it. It was a moment of feeling like being home.

  It was dizzying, dazzling, and utterly terrifying. I could see myself just never leaving this home, somehow getting drawn in, a day or two spent with Lucas turning into a week or two, a month or two, and then all of my things would slowly migrate here, and I’d just let my single room at Oxford go and then it’d be a year or two and things would be easy and peaceful.

  “Nina?” Lucas’s voice broke through my thoughts, sounding concerned.

  I started. “Yes?”

  He gestured at me with his fork. “Are you all right? You…it looked like you got lost there for a moment. You stared at me for the longest time with the strangest expression.”

  I ducked my head and cut a sliver of meat, placing it in my mouth. I refused to look at him. Refused to let anything else show. “Just…thinking.”

  “About what? You looked…lost. Or scared. Or…I don’t know, almost as if you’d seen a ghost, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  Seen a ghost. I had, in a way. I’d seen the ghost of my future. Our future.

  First Ian, and now Lucas. There was definitely something wrong with me. I was seeing forever everywhere I turned, in everyone I met. I wasn’t even looking for forever. I just wanted to study Regency literature and figure out my thesis and maybe a doctoral dissertation, get a spot as a professor at a prestigious university somewhere. Nothing too huge. Just dreams. But those dreams were my dreams, the ones I pursued alone. Men didn’t factor into my plans.

  Lucas was looking at me with great interest, as if he could read the thoughts on my face as easily as he’d read Goethe or Marlowe. He stood up, setting his napkin on the table beside his plate, never taking his eyes off mine, his brows narrowed as if in concentration, as if my thoughts were maybe in the original 18th century German, or the 16th century English, rather than in the more easily deciphered modern text. As if I was an enigma to be solved. He moved toward me, around the table, trailing his fingertips across the rich black wood grain, stopping just beside me, his knee just barely brushing my thigh. He reached across the table, snagged his goblet and drained the last of his wine. He lifted an eyebrow, which I somehow translated into a command to do the same. So I did. It was almost too big a mouthful of such rich wine. It coruscated in my mouth, a bursting bouquet, and then I swallowed it.

  A single drop trickled down from the corner of my mouth, and Lucas’s eyes followed its path toward my chin. He smeared it away with his thumb, and then put his thumb to my mouth.

  “Mustn’t let a single drop go to waste, you know,” he murmured.

  I could only blink and breathe.

  He took my hand, helping me to my feet.

  I wore a simple hunter green A-line dress, half-sleeves, knee-length, and a thin grey cotton button-down sweater with black flats. I was suddenly excruciatingly aware of myself, of the flattering cut of the dress, the way the sweater was buttoned to just beneath my breasts, accentuating them without revealing them, the way the hemline of the dress let my calves show. I don’t mind my calves; they’re shapely, as plump as the rest of me, but beneath a knee-length dress they somehow managed to look both cute and sexy. Or at least, I thought so.

  And now, Lucas stared down at me, his eyes rov
ing over my features—hair, eyes, chin, cheeks, throat, cleavage, hips, legs…and I realized he thought so too.

  Another kiss. Breathtaking. Slow, god, so slowly. Languorously.

  That word again: languorous. It sounds musical, that word. You can draw it out, spread the syllables over many moments, make the ‘L’ long and rolling around the edges of your tongue, and then you pull apart the ‘A’ sound into a whole word by itself almost, and then there’s the ‘N’—‘G’ transition. With this word you split them open, feel the ‘N’ as it turns into a nice back-of-the-palate ‘G’, and then it all curves into a lilting finish, the sibilant last letter hissed to the end of your breath. It’s the kind of word that sounds like its own definition.

  Languorous.

  That’s how he kissed me. With his lips, first, so I felt the brush of his slightly chapped lips scratching across mine, felt his breath on my teeth, on my tongue. Hands, one on my face, where it had been during our first kiss, possessively cupping cheek and ear, and now the pad of his thumb at the corner of my mouth. Then his lips sealed on mine, and I tasted him. His tongue tracing my teeth, prodding at my tongue, teasing, tangling. Head tilting, his other hand at my back, pulling me closer to him.

  It was a full-body kiss.

  It was a kiss that made me feel as if I was owned, as if I was the most beautiful creature in creation.

  I got drunk off that kiss.

  And I knew, deep down, that I should pull away. That very recent history would repeat itself. But when you’re drunk, you can’t pull yourself out of it. When you hit that place where you go “Shit, I’m really drunk,” and you know you’ve just had one shot too many and you’re going to end up falling-down drunk but there’s fuck-all you can do about it but ride it out; there’s no way to will yourself out of it, no way to get off the roller coaster.

  I dissolved into the kiss. I didn’t even notice when my cardigan was set aside, except for the slight chill on my skin, goosebumps pebbling my flesh. And then we were moving, still kissing, walking backward, not tripping but slowly and easily moving together in synch, step, step, step, my eyes closed as if I knew this house as well as my own bedroom back in Michigan, a sense of light even though my eyes were closed. I peeked: a ceiling fan rotated lazily, its light producing a dim amber glow, shedding just enough light to see and be seen, but not ruin the seduction.