No Ordinary Gentleman

“I know, and I was still on vacation, technically. I wasn’t lying, not about that—”

“I really don’t care what you said or why. I’m just thankful we had that night.” And determined it won’t be the start of a very brief fling.

“I’m just saying, I didn’t have sex with you because I’m easy,” she adds rather defensively, “or because I don’t respect myself. Maybe I had sex with you because you looked easy. Maybe it’s you I don’t respect.”

“Darling, you can disrespect me anytime.”

“That—that’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it? Pity. But it doesn’t matter.” I try to keep the frustration from my voice, the annoyance that I’d fallen back into the pattern I’m trying to avoid. We’ve come so far from that night, and I think she realises that. Impossible as it might seem, so different as we are, we have a connection that shouldn’t be denied. “What I’m trying to say is that in a strange kind of way, I was taking a holiday, too.”

“A holiday from your life, you mean.”

“Yes, I suppose so. From responsibilities and family and all that entails. It had been a while.” I grasp my glass and settle back into the chair. “Eat up before it goes cold.” She picks up her silverware and begins to eat again. “I suppose I realise I deserve something for myself, and I want that something to be you.” I watch as the progress of the fork slows on the way to her mouth. “But I realise it was wrong of me to throw all that at you this afternoon. You don’t know me. But I want you to. I want us to get to know each other. Then hopefully, we can revisit the situation.”

“What situation?” she says, laying down her silverware, evidently finished.

“The situation of us. The situation where I want us to be together.”

“That sounds not . . . like the things you had to say at the dinner table.”

This isn’t a slight or a reprimand and more somehow like she’s trying to goad me into a reaction. Confirmed as I reach for my glass and follow the dark dilation of her eyes. My wrist. My bicep. My shoulder. My lips as I take a sip. My throat as I swallow.

It’s possible she’s seeking attention, or perhaps this is our pattern. Either way, I find myself reaching out and delicately brushing my finger against a speck of béchamel sauce at the corner of her mouth. There really isn’t any need but the one burning inside of me. The one I’ve been trying to ignore since she walked through the door full of taunts overlaid by a blithe attitude. Before I can take it back—my hand, the action—her hands circle my wrist.

“I told you I wasn’t going to share it.” Her voice is husky, her eyes bitter chocolate again. “Not even a little bit.” Then her pink tongue grazes the tip of my finger. Fuck. “If you want some, you’ll have to take it from the source.”

“The source of all temptation, you mean.” I try to make it sound like a reprimand, like I’m unimpressed. Like my cock hasn’t been left aching from the tiny throb of connection. As I pull my arm back, Holland travels with it, her thighs coming over mine.

“Holland.” Her name is a rasping whisper as I trace the path of her hairline with my finger. Past her ear, her jaw, and farther down her neck. Across one-half of her shirt covered collarbone it goes before ghosting over the first three buttons on her shirt. I want to kiss her, but I won’t. Not yet. And while kissing is the least I want to do with her, that’s where I’ll draw the limit. I have to. I want more than stolen moments in the dark. I want to find her in my bed as the dawn breaks and to be able to kiss her on the cheek at lunch time in full view of everyone around. I want to take her hand as we stroll through the gardens, reach for it over the table as we dine in some London restaurant. And this is what I’ll fight for as I settle my hands lightly over her hips.

“Touch me, Alexander.”

“You don’t really want that.” I press a kiss to her jaw and murmur my rebuttal there. “You’re just a little drunk and incredibly horny.”

And God bless her for it.

“That’s not true.” She slides her arms around my neck and flexes her hips, pressing herself deeper into my lap. “Not all of it, at least.” Her chest rises and falls with a deep sigh.

“It looks entirely true to me.” And entirely too delicious. I can’t quite believe I haven’t thrown her over my shoulder already, but I want more than evenings of stolen moments and days of denials.