Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

He loved her slowly, at a less harried pace than they’d yet managed, filling himself with her sounds, her tastes, her scents. She gave herself over completely to the moment, to the sensation. She was the most utterly sensual woman he’d ever known.

He fell asleep curled around her, his hand on her breast so he could feel the heavy beat of her heart against his palm.

Rachel wasn’t a morning person, but there was something about waking up to Jack kissing his way down her spine that added a definite lift to the morning doldrums.

“Morning,” she said lazily, stretching as his mouth did delicious things to her.

His reply was indistinct, but she could work it out in context.

When he flipped her to her back, she was more than ready.

“Ssh,” she said when he banged his elbow against the wall. “I don’t want Chloe to hear.”

“It’s a bit like having a child in the next room. Which is truer than you might think.”

“Be nice to her. She’s going through a hard time.”

“When you know her better, you’ll understand that drama is as necessary to Chloe as Perrier Jouët.”

Why did he keep saying these things to her? When you know her better? As if that was going to happen. A week or two from now, some Lufthansa flight attendant would be with Jack, writhing under the buzz of the living room vibrator, lathered up in lemon-scented massage oil. And she’d be topping her special blinis with caviar for the next scheduled function at Hart House. Did he think she was one of those women-if there were such women-who wanted to hear lies and platitudes?

She might have called him on it, but he was deep inside her body, and when he moved he nudged her G-spot, she couldn’t possibly think of anything at all.

Afterward, she ran her hands idly down his back while they caught their breath, her head on his chest. “I feel so good I never want to move.”

He played with her hair, and without pausing said, “Then don’t.”

She’d had enough of this. Now that she could think, it was time to put an end to this nonsense.

“Are you suggesting I should stay in this bed for the rest of my natural life?”

“Don’t be daft.” He shifted her and raised himself onto an elbow so he could look at her. “But you could stay with me forever.”

Her heart stuttered, which irritated her. “Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes à la sophisticated woman of the world.

He didn’t respond à la sophisticated man of the world, but stayed where he was. She felt he was struggling to say something, and finally he did.

“I love you, Rachel,” he said, looking deep into her eyes, his hand touching her shoulder as though he couldn’t bear not to touch her.

“Oh, give me a break,” she snapped.

He blinked, and his hand fell away. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am not one of those women who needs love words. I’ve always known what this is and I accept it. Please don’t piss me off with a load of false sentiment. It only cheapens this relationship.”

He seemed genuinely puzzled. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean. You think love cheapens sex?”

“I think false declarations take away from the basic honesty of what this relationship is.”

His gaze sharpened. “And what is it exactly?”

“A purely physical, mutually beneficial convenience.”

Outside, she heard traffic, the low vroom of an airplane. Church bells from a distance.

“So, you don’t love me?”

There was a pause. Her heart beat so hard it hurt. “No.”

He touched her breast lightly, softly. “Your heart is completely untouched?”

Her swallow sounded loud in the sudden quiet. “Yes.”

“I see.”

“Oh, don’t give me that brave, wounded bullshit. Every guy I’ve ever known wants exactly what you’ve got. Sex”-she gave a tiny, smug smile-“lots of sex, with no strings attached.”

Instead of laughing, or stomping off, or engaging in any remotely predictable behavior, he traced her cheek with one finger. His eyes were serious and understanding. “I’ve never known a woman who yearns for love more than you do, and is more terrified of it.”

She leapt off the bed and her laugh was harsh and sudden. “I don’t have time for this. I need to-”

She found herself cut off as he flipped her to the bed so fast her back hit the mattress before she remembered moving.

He was on top of her, not pinning her exactly, but forcing her to make a big deal of it if she wanted to move. She didn’t feel like making a big deal about it. She wished she were clothed, though, and that her heart wasn’t beating quite so fast. It made her feel vulnerable and a little foolish.

“I don’t need love,” she said, staring up at him. “I don’t want it.”

“I’ve seen you around your sister and George, you know, and even around Arthur and Meg.”

“And when have I ever given any indication that I want what they have? That I want to be so besotted, so blinded by emotion that I lose my common sense?”

“Oh,” he said, “your words do a fine job of portraying what a cynic you are, but your eyes give you away.”

She rolled those eyes now, to give him a good idea what she thought of his notion.

“I thought at first it was irritation I was witnessing, but it’s not, is it?”

“You tell me. You seem to have the keys to my inner thoughts and feelings after knowing me for one week.”

“It’s jealousy.”

Fury, hot and molten, spurted within her. She shoved at his shoulder, so he moved away, letting her up.

“I’ve been married. I couldn’t be less jealous. It’s pity you witnessed. Pity for anyone fool enough to fall in love knowing that the chances of disaster outweigh any hope of lasting happiness by about two to one.”

“You had a rotten marriage, Rachel. It happens. It happens all the time to clever, successful people who you would think would choose wisely. But for every bad marriage there’s a good one, one that makes you keep believing. I think Max and George have every chance of happiness. You can see that, too, that’s what’s making you sick with jealousy.”

“That’s an awful thing to say. I love my sister. I’m not jealous of her.”

“She has something you want. Worse, you know it’s within your reach.” He reached out his arm to illustrate his point. “And that makes you crazy with fear.”

She snorted. “Make up your mind. Am I jealous, afraid, or yearning? Pick one.”

“You, my darling, are all three.”

“I can’t figure you out. Why are you doing this?” She shook her head. “Of all people, you are the last one I would have dreamed would play the love card.”

“It’s not a card, darling, and this isn’t a game. I think I’ve finally found the woman I was always certain I’d meet. It was a bit of a surprise that she turned out to be you, but there it is.”

She straightened, tossed back her hair. “So what are you saying? You want to marry me?”

He looked at her for a long time. “And what if I am?”

Her skin started to prickle all over, as though she were breaking out in hives.

“If you believe in love and marriage so much, then why did George and Max both warn me that you’re a womanizer? Why are you always in the wedding party but never the one getting married?”

“Because I never found the right woman.” He rested back on his elbows. “I wouldn’t keep turning up in wedding parties if I didn’t believe in and respect the institution, now would I?”

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t you?”

“No. Give me credit for some integrity.”

“So you’re saying that in all this time you’ve never met a woman you wanted to marry?”