Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

“Yes, sister dear, you warned me about him. I get it. But you know what? I don’t care. He wants a casual, no-strings-attached affair and so do I.” She stuck her phone back on the clip at her waist. “You were right to manipulate me into coming here.”

“I didn’t-”

She silenced Max with a look.

“It was for your own good,” Max mumbled.

“I know. And I’ve finally had a chance to get over myself enough to see that I’m free. Free of a man who didn’t deserve me and a restaurant that wasn’t mine. So maybe I’m not such a failure after all.”

“Hallelujah. She gets it,” Max said, throwing up her hands.

“Maybe I can take some time for myself for a while. Time to have fun and hang out with unsuitable men who are great in bed. I can find another job. One day, I still hope to open my own restaurant. Until then, I can learn from better chefs. Maybe take some management training, so I won’t make the same mistakes I’ve witnessed.”

“Wow, three weeks in England and you’re a changed woman.”

“I really needed this, Max.” She felt her eyes go misty as she walked up to her sister. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

Maxine’s eyes filled, too. “Always.”

Rachel had been to London before. Once to take a course from a renowned chef and once when she’d come to visit her sister when Max was on location. But she’d never looked forward to London quite so much. She’d never had an amazing lover waiting.

Her train arrived at Victoria Station Saturday at noon. And there he was.

At a conservative estimate, there were three gazillion people in the station, rushing here and there, or loitering waiting for their trains, eating at one of the cafés, or yacking on phones in every language ever spoken.

Among all that flow of humanity, she spotted Jack almost immediately. For a moment it was as though there was a hiccup in time. There was silence, the world stilled, all those cell phone talkers were muted, all the rush of motion halted. There was only she and the man who had so easily helped her find her way back to herself.

She walked forward, so did he, and time was allowed to do the same.

Would he kiss her in front of all these people? Did she want him to?

He did. And she did. And as their lips met, she leaned into him. Oh, he was already so familiar, and her body wanted to get as close as it could to him.

“Hi,” he said, taking her weekender bag in one hand and linking his fingers in hers with his other. “What do you want to do today? See the changing of the guard? Visit the Tower? Madame Tussauds?”

“We could, but I saw all that last time I was here.”

“What about Notting Hill, then? Excellent shops, interesting architecture, good places to eat.”

“In what part of London do you live?”

He grinned down at her. “Notting Hill.”

She grinned back. “Excellent choice.”

“Good. We can drop your bag off and then go out and see the sights.”

She gawked like a tourist as they drove through London traffic. She loved the excitement of the city. The splendid old buildings, the surprising green spaces, the London bobbies, the Tube stations, the black cabs.

His home was a brick townhouse in a row of same, all looking Victorian and genteel. Inside, his décor tended to modern, sleek and much neater than any other man she’d ever come across. This was the kind of place where she knew she wouldn’t have to shut her eyes before venturing into the bathroom, or do some Yogic, centering breathing before opening the refrigerator.

“Do you want anything before we venture out?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to the kitchen.

If a woman was launched on a short-term affair that centered around sex, then she wasn’t going to waste her time on salmon sandwiches and tea. She stepped closer. Looked him in the eye. “I want you.”

“Thank God,” he said, and swept her into his arms. “I thought you might think I was a randy bloke who wanted nothing but a shag.”

She laughed, half breathless as he pushed her coat off her shoulders and pulled her sweater over her head. “Aren’t you?”

“Absolutely. But I didn’t want you seeing through me quite so quickly.”

There was a pool of sunlight splashed on the floor of the living area. It made the hardwood gleam and brought out the rich reds and blues in a Turkish rug. There he led her, pausing to flip a quilt she hadn’t noticed from the back of a gray couch. With one flick he had it open and floating to the ground like a picnic blanket.

The thought flashed through her mind that it was a familiar move. And the quilt was washable. Very practical for a quickie in the living room. One of the intricate wooden boxes arranged on a nearby shelf no doubt contained condoms and there was a handy box of tissues tucked in behind it.

A flicker of…something-sadness? regret?-she banished. She’d gone into this with her eyes open. She knew what he was. He was a good-time guy, a charming rogue who’d love her and leave her unless she left him first. Which, she reminded herself, was exactly what she wanted. Some fun, some great sex, some laughs, no tears or recriminations when it was over.

And a man who had a sex station, likely in every room of his home, was a man you could trust to run an affair smoothly.

She helped herself to a cushion off the couch, in a pattern that harmonized with the rug. Stepped out of the rest of her clothes and sank cross-legged to the cushion, watching with pleasure as he stripped.

“Which little box holds the condoms?” she asked him.

If he was surprised that she’d guessed, he showed it only by the slightest flicker of an eyelid. “The middle one.”

“What’s in the others?”

“Why don’t you have a look?”

Knowing a dare when she heard one, she rose, as gracefully as a naked, not-in-very-good-shape woman can rise from a cross-legged position, and walked to the three boxes, knowing he was watching her, feeling his eyes on her larger-than-necessary ass. She went for the middle box first, and based on their last encounter, removed two condoms. Then she opened the second box, wondering if, like Pandora, she might end up wishing she hadn’t peeked.

But there was nothing more threatening than a vibrator with a variety of attachments. She glanced at him over her shoulder with her eyebrows raised.

He grinned at her. “Definitely not something you need,” he said.

She lifted the lid of the third box and found a selection of flavored and scented lubricants and massage oils.

“Not bad for living room décor,” she said, feeling happy that he didn’t have anything that went beyond her comfort zone.

“Bring over whatever you like the look of.”

“Maybe later,” she said, and launched herself at him.

This sex did not need any aides.

His hands were all over her, hers all over him. He pushed her into the sunlight, so she was utterly exposed to him, and he seemed to glory in her.

Never had she felt so beautiful or delighted that her body responded so quickly. He kissed her deeply, running his hands over and over her breasts and belly. When he reached between her thighs she opened for him, sighing at his touch, blooming beneath his fingers. Her first orgasm took the edge off but also dropped her to a deeper level of sensation. Her skin was ultrasensitive, so she was aware of the subtle heat of the sun coming through the window, of the soft cotton of the quilt beneath her, aware of each quivering inch of her body as he touched her.

He didn’t take the time to play as he had before; she sensed that his urgency was too keen. He took her, straight on, pushing in and up, filling her, reaching so deep inside that he began to feel like a part of her.

She watched his face change as his passion built, the way his eyes darkened and seemed to look inside her. Tiny sounds were coming from her throat, little sighs and helpless moans. She was climbing, trying to wait for him, but so excited she wasn’t sure she could.