Sure Thing

I stare at her for a heartbeat, thinking it would make my life easier if I abandoned this straight away and found a different woman to spend tonight with, but dammit if she doesn’t intrigue me.

“Whyever would you do that?” I find myself asking her instead.

“You’re a customer,” she replies, but her eyes fall to my chest and she swallows. A hint of a blush reaches her cheeks before she meets my eyes again. “It’s not proper.”

“Proper?” I can’t help it, I laugh. “Are you living in Regency London now?”

“People still use the word ‘proper,’” she scoffs at me. Literally scoffs. I’m not used to women being so transparent with me. She doesn’t give a single toss about impressing me and it’s sort of endearing in an odd way.

“Sure they do, as in ‘I’d like a proper cup of tea.’ No one uses the word to describe a sexual liaison.”

“No one uses the word ‘liaison’ either.”

“I think they do. Should we continue this conversation in my room?” I nod towards the lifts in hopes we’re about done with this chat.

“No, Jennings. I’m serious.” She stomps her foot a little when she says ‘serious’ and I’m not sure how I’ll keep myself from kissing her right then, lobby be damned.

“What happened to you being a sure thing?” I question instead. “I quite liked you when you were a sure thing. Not that this little song and dance isn’t fun.”

“That was before.”

“Before what exactly?”

“Before I realized how complicated this is,” she huffs, but she’s not looking at me and doesn’t seem that invested in her defense. I can’t help but feel like there’s something I’m not getting.

“What’s complicated about this?” I run my fingertip along the bare skin between her elbow and wrist and she inhales quickly. “And what happened to the part where my accent drives you wild?”

“It does,” she agrees. She says it entirely too primly for a girl capable of multiple orgasms, one whose nipples hardened from me no more than skimming her arm.

Besides, I don’t care about her perceived rules.

“Plus, you’re my one-night stand and if I sleep with you again then you’re not technically a one-night stand.”

Come again?

“Not technically a one-night stand,” I repeat back to her.

“Right.” She nods and her brow is furrowed over this. “And it was perfect,” she says on a big exhale of breath and waves her hand while I smile, because yes, yes, it was. “Really, really great,” she continues. “So if we do it again my perfect one-night stand is shot and what if the next time I have a one-night stand it’s bad? Then my only one-night stand is terrible and then I’d have to keep having them until I had another good one and—”

“Okay, stop talking.” I hold up a hand, hoping it’s enough to make her stop. I don’t even know where to begin with what just came out of her mouth, but since I don’t care to zero in on the idea of her with other men, I’ll start with the obvious. “You enjoyed yourself the other night?”

“Yeah.” She looks at me as if I’m an idiot.

“So much so that you don’t want to do it again?”

“It’s complicated, Jennings.” She frowns. “This tour”—she pauses—”it’s just complicated.”

“What if it’s better the next time?” I say, ignoring her tour nonsense.

“Not possible.” She shakes her head.

“What if it’s just as good as the last time?” I say, gritting my teeth. “What if we could have sex just as good as the first night every night for the next week?”

“I don’t think so,” she replies, but she says it with a hint of longing in her voice and a lingering glance at my lips.

“Enough of this. I’m not done with you.” I say it firmly, perhaps a bit more so than I meant, but her eyes snap to attention with interest at my tone.

“Not done with me?” she questions and her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. No, I’m most definitely not done with her.

“No, Daisy, I’m not. I need you again.” Her eyes widen and I know I have her interest. “I need to taste your sweet pussy again. I need to suck on those gorgeous nipples until you’re begging for my cock.” Desire fills her eyes and her breathing hitches. She wants this. I’m not done. “I need you to come until you’ve had more orgasms than you knew were possible and you’re limp from exhaustion. I need you to ride me until your thighs shake and then I’ll flip you over and taste your pussy all over again. Until you’re sated beyond measure. So no, Daisy, I’m not done.”

“Don’t call me that,” she blurts out.

“Don’t call you by your name?” This is a new one for me. Her eyes widen as I stare at her. I thought I’d uncovered every bit of crazy a woman could throw at me by now, but this is new.

“It’s just that I really liked it when you called me ‘love,’” she says. She’s flushed and speaking faster than normal, the crazy flying out of her mouth at record speed. “It’s so British the way you did that, and the truth is I’m a bit of an Anglophile. My secret is out!” she adds with an odd little wink. “Let’s go to your room. Just call me ‘love,’ okay?” She spins in the direction of the lifts, not waiting to see if I’m following.

Crazy or not, I’m following.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Violet

That was close.

Way too close. Don’t call me Daisy. What an idiotic thing to say, but I’m not cut out for this kind of subterfuge. I blow a stray hair off my forehead and jab at the elevator call button a bit more forcefully than necessary while I mull over my predicament.

The thing is I do want to sleep with Jennings again—of course I want to. I’d have to be insane not to want a repeat performance. I spent all afternoon daydreaming about it, recalling the details from the first time over and over again. The scent of his skin and the way it felt moving against my own. The way his hair stood up in spots where I tugged on it with my fingers. His magic mouth and brilliant fingers. The tilt of his head when he thrust into me and the look in his eyes as he came.

So yeah, sign me up.

Then by the time we got to dinner I started to think. What if he called me Daisy right in the midst of things? I don’t think my psyche could ever recover from that blow. No way. He could have called me Rose—that would have been fine, a little naughty even, hearing him use a fake name I’d given him in the hotel bar. But my sister’s name? No. Absolutely firm, great big huge no. So I resolved to stay away—better safe than sorry and all that.

But then he waited for me in the lobby. Pretending to look at tourism flyers while I pretended not to notice he was waiting. And then he was all convincing and suave and used words like… well, just words. He shouldn’t be allowed to use words. Any of them. If he’d just grunted and given me his room key I’d have been able to resist. Probably.

But no, he used his sophisticated British accent to speak words and I’m not made of stone for crying out loud. He said ‘pussy.’ In the hotel lobby. In his accent and it was lewd and inappropriate and hot as hell. And then ‘cock’ flew out of his mouth and words like ‘begging’ and ‘multiple orgasms’ and, well, that was that.

So I blurted out the part about not calling me Daisy and nearly cost my sister her job a mere one day into this trip. I am literally the worst at undercover operations. It’s pathetic. At twenty-six years old I should be better at deceit. I’ve got no game.

I wonder if I should just tell him? I bite my lip and glance at him over my shoulder. He’s staring at my ass. I turn back around and look at the elevator button and wonder where the hell the elevator is. It’s a three-story building, how long could it take to get back to the first floor? And why are we not taking the stairs? No, I can’t tell him, I decide. What the heck would I say? Hey, listen, the thing is I’m not actually Daisy. I’m Violet. Daisy’s identical twin sister? Yeah, so she had something to do this week and I took her place as tour guide.

I can’t envision any scenario where that ends well. Or with me not in jail. What’s that, Jennings? No, no, I’m not a scam artist. Not technically. I was simply trying to earn some money from a job I’m not qualified for.

Not a scam.

Right.

Holy shit, why didn’t I think of this before now? I cannot have an arrest record or I am never getting another job again. This must be illegal, what we’re doing. I’m so screwed.

When we finally step onto the elevator the mood feels somber. At least to me. Jennings might still be thinking about my ass for all I know, but he’s quiet and so am I.

He pauses when we reach his door and waits until I meet his eyes. “You’re not married, are you, Daisy?” he asks, then corrects himself with a roll of his eyes. “Love? You’re not married, are you, love?”