by Parker Swift
“A little less, but you still should have warned me.” I felt slightly chagrined, but I also saw Dylan rolling his eyes and caught Lloyd smiling. I smiled back. “Hi, Lloyd.”
“Hello, Miss Bell.”
Lloyd held open the door, and Dylan helped me into the car, his hand somehow never leaving my body as he climbed in after me. We darted through Tuesday night London traffic in silence. I was looking out the window, taking in my first real night out in my new city. Finally, I looked to him. “So, what have you been up to?” If there was any way I was going to see through all the attraction and actually talk to him tonight, I’d have to start somewhere.
“Oh, the usual,” he deflected.
“But you love the usual?” He seemed in his element here in London, far more at home than he had been walking across that lawn with his family.
“It’s what I do,” he shrugged. I got the sense he was being modest.
“And what exactly is that? What did you do today?”
“You know I’m an architect,” he said, and I nodded. “Well, today, I began work on a personal project. I also checked in on a library in Athens and a residence in Jordan, both under construction.”
“You were in Athens and in Jordan today?” I replied curiously.
“No. These were remote check-ins. Virtual tours of the building sites,” he clarified.
“Oh. Of course.” I blushed. Presumably what I suggested had been impossible.
“I’d be there in person if I could be. I’m very…particular.” He grabbed my hand and held it across his lap. “How was your first day at work?” he asked, clearly wanting to change the topic.
“Oh!” I remembered, turning to him in my seat. “Thank you for the flowers—they are gorgeous!” He smiled and tightened his grip on my hand. “No one’s ever sent me flowers before.”
He turned slightly to face me and frowned. “That won’t do. I don’t believe for a minute that you haven’t left behind a line of chaps, pining, all wishing they’d thought to send you more flowers about now.” Forget sending flowers. No man had even looked at me the way he was at that moment. I wanted to hold on to it. Keep it.
“Hardly! But thank you for the undeserved credit. I’m quite sure it’s never once occurred to any guy I’ve gone out with to buy me flowers.”
“You don’t see yourself very clearly, do you?” He wasn’t asking, he was stating in wonder, and it made me melt a little. He lightly brushed my palm with his thumb as we rounded a tight corner onto Sloane Street.
“You’re clearly blind, old man.” I scoffed and huffed at him, turning to look at the stately neighborhood outside my window.
But then I felt his finger tap the edge of my chin, prompting me to turn my gaze to his. He looked dead serious, no trace of humor on his face. He said, with pure authority in his voice, “Don’t do that. You’re lovely.”
I gulped and nodded in reply. I felt instantly shy, vulnerable, and surprisingly, riotously turned on. The words, that attitude, cut through any date-like awkwardness that could have been there. I got the sense that he would never let me be falsely modest or play games with him, never let me just act the part of being a girl on a date, never let me be dishonest. That clarity, that authority, brought the sexual tension between us into high relief and every cell of my body to attention. There would be no skirting around this thing between us. He was going to throw us into the fire. I could feel it.
“I’ll ask again. How was your first day?” he continued, still bossy but softening, as though he were exercising patience with me.
“It was actually…great.” I started slowly. “I think I’m really going to love the people I work with—they’re hilarious and welcoming. Spring Fashion Week is coming up, so things will be getting busy, insanely busy, soon. In fact they already are—I think they’re just easing me into the fray.” He nodded, stroking my hand as we talked.
The car made a couple of tight turns through the elegant Regency-style neighborhood and pulled up in front of a large white home, standing tall on a corner. The house was in Belgravia, which I knew from a 60 Minutes special on some Middle Eastern oil tycoon was one of the most expensive residential areas in the world. Lloyd opened the door, and Dylan ducked through and held out his hand for me.
“This is me.” And he gestured to the manse in front of us.
He had his hand to my back from the moment we left the car, removing it only to unlock the huge glossy black door, and he ushered me into an expansive high-ceilinged foyer painted a warm hunter green. Dylan placed his keys on a large dark wood circular table in front of me, and the scent of the enormous arrangement of flowers perched there mingled with the cool rush of air that came when he closed the door behind me. A beautiful parlor was off to the left, and there were signs of a kitchen down a long hall ahead. A huge regal staircase wound up to the floors above.
The house was all polished wood and carefully chosen paint and finishes. Each accent seemed perfect for the space, a combination of sleek modern male taste and distinguished English elegance. I caught glimpses of large oil paintings and photographic prints, a careful juxtaposition of contemporary and traditional art. It wasn’t the home of a soulless mega-mogul bachelor. It obviously wasn’t the home of a family man either, but it had a warmth and lived-in feel that suggested a distinguished sophisticated gentleman rather than a bachelor playboy.
Dylan stood behind me and lifted my jacket from my shoulders, halting as he brought it down my arms and encountered the cutout at the back of my dress. I heard him inhale deeply.
“God you’re gorgeous,” he said quietly, placing my jacket on the bannister of the stairs and eyeing me up and down. He placed his hand on my bare back, and I felt cooler and warmer in the same instant. He stroked his thumb against my skin, and I found myself trying to steady my breathing. If I never wore this dress again, it would still be worth every cent.
As he turned me towards the hallway leading towards the kitchen, I was caught by an enormous glossy photographic print of an ocean horizon on one wall of the foyer.
“This is stunning.” My eyes were glued to it, taking in the surprising red hues on the crests of the waves in the picture.
“Isn’t it?”
“It’s otherworldly.”
“You’ve got an eye.” He tugged my hand and led me back to the warm light of the kitchen. The room was lined with large white subway tiles and accented all over with butcher block and stainless steel. It was a cook’s dream.
“This place is incredible, Dylan.” I took it all in as he reached into the fridge for some white wine. “Is it a family home?” I asked as I found a place on a high stool at the marble kitchen island. I had thought he’d live in some glass tower, and I was frankly surprised to see him in this traditional English building.
“It was,” he started, looking at me like I’d touched on something he hadn’t expected me to. “It belonged to my grandfather. Wine?” I nodded, and he began to pour. I was going to need all the liquid courage I could get. “He inherited it from his father, who had the misfortune of being a drunk and a total wanker by all accounts. He lost much of the fortune he had inherited. Not high times for the Hale family. So when he died at the ripe age of fifty, this house and the one where my parents live now were the main assets, apart from his title, that he could leave his son. My grandfather sold this place when he was young and used the money to start his own business—”
“Hale Shipping?”
“That’s right.” He looked faintly surprised that I had done my research. He pulled two plated meals from a warming drawer behind him and placed one in front of me. The food—steak, polenta, and some kind of leafy green vegetable—was perfectly arranged and steam rose from its surface. He sat next to me, and we both began eating. “The money from selling this house helped him build a business of his own, on his own merit, and he was able to hand down the business to his son, my father.”
“You admire that.” I could see the pride and reverence in his eyes.
/>
He nodded. “Not that my father cared. He’s far more concerned with being the sixteenth Duke of Abingdon than running the business, although he certainly reaps the rewards.” He said this with clear disapproval.
“What does a Duke do, exactly?” I asked sheepishly.
“Nothing,” he replied curtly. “Not these days anyway. My grandfather represented the Queen on State visits a few times and organized the State Opening of Parliament, and there are some other command performances. Apart from managing the estate, it’s all pomp and circumstance. Presumably my father will be doing some of that soon, though if I were the Queen I wouldn’t let my father near anything of import.” There was obviously a story there, and not a good one, but it didn’t seem like the time to explore it. I certainly wasn’t ready to talk about my family, or lack thereof.
“And what exactly is a Marquess? I’m sorry for not knowing.”
“Don’t be,” he replied firmly. “I’m the son of a Duke, that’s all. It’s a title and excuse for people to be interested in my personal life.” This was obviously not his favorite topic.
“Anyhow,” he continued, “the house had been bought and sold and broken up into flats, but a few years ago I made the owners an offer, and here we are.” There was a subtle pride in his voice.
“Buying it back on your own merit.”
He gave a subtle nod in acknowledgment. “Many of the furnishings once belonged to my grandfather, though I’ve added quite a bit of technology and sustainability features, and you’ll see that the upstairs has been modernized quite a bit.” He paused. “More wine, Lydia?”
I gulped and nodded. “You think I’ll see the upstairs? Confident, aren’t you?” I had no idea where my occasional bursts of self-assurance were coming from. Dylan exuded total competence, and I was pretty sure I was completely out of my depth.
“Always,” he said and smiled knowingly.
We ate in silence for a few minutes, and I could feel the tension rising. “You’re not eating much,” he observed.
“It’s delicious. I’m just…distracted.” I crossed and uncrossed my legs, attempting to curb the growing need between them. My skin was beginning to heat up. The way he looked leaning on the island in front of him, his shirt unbuttoned and exposing a hint of chest hair, left me breathless. He was so goddamn masculine. He checked my body over, clearly taking in my flushed state.
He shoved his empty plate aside and turned to me. “Tell me about your previous relationships, Lydia. You don’t have a boyfriend back in the States, do you?”
I shook my head. “There’s not much to tell.” I shrugged. “You know, town harlot and all that,” I said, willing a joke to somehow make me feel like I had a better grip on what I was doing. It seemed we were about to get somewhere, and my body was on high alert.
He barely smiled at my feeble attempt at humor, and continued his interrogation, sweeping away my plate. “I don’t believe you. Has there ever been anyone serious?”
I shook my head. “No one lasting more than a couple of months.”
“Why?” He was genuinely puzzled. He leaned on the far side of the kitchen island, his forearms resting on its shiny surface.
“I’ve never been that interested. I mean. Before—” I stopped myself, and he smiled.
He leaned in further, reaching over the island, and whispered conspiratorially, “I want you too.”
I gulped and felt the tension thicken between us. “Have you had many girlfriends?” I asked. I was talking, but I was only half processing anything other than the sensations beating through my body.
“I don’t have girlfriends.”
“Ever?” He shook his head in confirmation.
“Not in a long time. I don’t do relationships, Lydia. You should know that before we go any further.”
“What do you want then, Dylan? I feel like I’m being courted here—effectively, I might add.” He smiled knowingly at the compliment while I crossed my arms in front of my chest, trying to protect myself a little, as futile as it might be. “Or I was being courted…” Dylan got up and came to stand before me, making me pause.
“Lydia,” he said, looking straight into my eyes. He grazed my arms with the backs of his hands, and my skin hummed with his touch. He was looking right into me. He cupped my chin with his hand, and drew my gaze up to his. He placed a gentle kiss on my lips, instantly calling all of my blood to my cheeks. Then he said, in a playful but firm whisper, “I want to fuck you.”
Chapter 9
I could barely breathe with him standing this close; my chest was rising and falling in an exaggerated beat, hunting for more oxygen, and for another kiss. I gulped. “So, just sex, then?”
He smiled with a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Just sex? What I have in mind will be far better than ‘just sex.’
“I hope you’re not offended,” he continued, in a near whisper. “I’m afraid it’s all I’m good for, but I promise I’m very. Very. Good at it.” He moved in even closer, parting my legs with his, and wedged himself between them.
“You know, it’s a real shame about your self-esteem,” I said, feeling the room around me fade into the background.
He held my face in his hands with surprising softness, and he leaned over and kissed me again, laying gentle pecks across my cheeks and neck. “The fact is, cheeky girl.” Kiss. “I want you.” Kiss. He grazed one hand up my leg and brought his fingers tantalizingly close to my center, barely grazing me over my panties. “And I want this.” Kiss. My body sang with desire. He brought both hands to my face and pulled me into a deeper, more demanding, possessive kiss, skirting my lips with his tongue.
“Dylan—” He brushed my bangs from my forehead and stroked my cheek with his thumb. “Do you ever have relationships?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly. “No. Only casual. We do this my way, or not at all.” He smiled knowingly. “Trust me,” he continued, “I’m complete rubbish at relationships anyway.” There was a long pause as I took this in. No matter how attracted to him I was, no matter what direction my own feelings took for him, Dylan would be uncompromising on this last point—he said it with an utter finality.
“What about other women?”
“What about them?”
“Are you seeing any?” I asked, almost not wanting to know the answer.
“Not at the moment. For as long as we’re sleeping together, it will just be you.” Well there was that, at least. “Also, there’s something you need to know and understand. It’s important.” He looked more resolved all of a sudden, and he moved his hands to my waist. He searched my eyes for a moment, to be sure I was listening.
“No one can know.”
It’s not like I thought we’d be spending holidays together after he’d so firmly established that we’d be casual, but he couldn’t mean no one. “I think that goes without saying. I don’t actually want to be the town harlot, so I think this would be private to say the least.”
“Completely private. Like I said, I don’t date, Lydia. I’m a very private person, but I’m also a public figure. I attend a lot of functions, give many speeches, and I get photographed and written about. Frequently. I won’t want you anywhere near that circus. Do you understand?” I nodded. “This is nonnegotiable, so think about it, Lydia. No family. No friends. No double dates. Just you and me, in private. You need to agree to that before this goes any further.”
What the hell? My first instinct was to be pissed off. What right did he have to unilaterally call the shots? But after a moment, I realized what he was saying. If he was really the man-about-town he claimed to be, I could see how it could get messy if every time he started to have a relationship, or whatever this was going to be, it got splashed all over the Daily Mirror. And hell, the longer I thought about it, I wasn’t sure I would want it to be anything but completely secret. If he was such a player, and I actually agreed to have this thing with him, did I really want other people looking at me and thinking I was being played?
He looked at me intently, impatiently. “Lydia, it will be good, I assure you.” He began running his fingers down my arm softly, and he whispered, “I’m going to fuck you a thousand different ways.”
Another moment passed, and he was clearly waiting for me to say something, to reassure him that I understood what he was asking, to agree to this version of what we would be—casual, secret sex, for I guess however long it lasted. But I couldn’t. Not only because I was practically having an out-of-body experience—every move he made and every look he gave me connected me more firmly to the insane chemistry we had—but also because I was completely off-kilter. None of this was going how I thought it would. Was I really ok with meaningless sex? With Dylan?
His hand had drifted back down between my parted legs and rhythmically stroked my inner leg right above my knee, and I was pretty sure that if he kept it up I might come right there, from goddamn knee touching.
He stood before me, waiting, wanting, and I’d never felt more desired. “Talk to me,” he said quietly. “I’m dying here, looking at you in that dress, with your hair off your neck, your lips hanging open like that. I’m about to lose it. Are you in?” All of this was said while he stroked my leg, ready to pounce when I gave him permission.
I wanted to. I wanted to fling my arms up around his neck, feel that scruff against my skin. Him wanting this, wanting me—it was an aphrodisiac. God, he was so deliciously alluring, and maybe that was all he had to be. I didn’t even know him; maybe a casual fling is all I’d want.
I could do this. Hell, I was only twenty-four, I should do this. Suddenly, I wasn’t remotely concerned about any of the things I should have been: Why did we need to keep this a secret? Would this only be a one-time thing? How many other women had there been?
The one thing paralyzing me was my ninety-nine percent certainty that I would somehow embarrass myself, that the fact that I hadn’t had sex in so long would be immediately clear to him.
“I understand,” I began. His eyes widened with excitement, and he started to move in, clearly taking my words as a green light. But I held up my hand, placing it against his firm chest. “But…” He stopped, looking wary. “You should know that it’s…it’s just that it’s been a while since I’ve…” I stared down at my hand, afraid to look him in the eye. He didn’t need to know that a while was actually nearly six years.
