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  In my silence, he spoke quietly. "We don't have to, of course. But I'd be remiss not to offer the opportunity for privacy in light of our conversation earlier."

  He was giving me an out. We could go straight back downstairs, and he wouldn't hold it against me. We'd take our places where we sat earlier and probably engage in some heavy, harmless flirting until I left to catch my train back to Oxford. I'd never see him again, but I'd go home with a story about the night I wished I indulged a bit. I'd go back to my small flat, get in bed alone, and I'd wonder what would have happened if I'd stayed for an extra drink.

  The strap of my purse bit into my skin where I clutched it in my fingers. On one hand, I was not a sleep with a guy I'd met that night kind of girl. No judgment, I had friends back in Washington who were that type. More power to them and all that. It just wasn't me.

  Partially because I'd never met anyone who'd made me want to sleep with them on the night I met them.

  And Jude just about had me panting on that stool, whispering naughty soccer things in my ear. Want wasn't the problem.

  If I left, if I took the out, I'd regret it.

  I'd wonder. I'd wish. And I'd lament the fact that I didn't take a chance and learn how a man like him kissed. And just about more than anything, I hated feeling like I'd missed out.

  "What the hell, right?" I whispered.

  I shoved the jacket back into my purse and took a deep breath before I left the tiny room.

  His back was to me when I cleared the doorway, and Lord, his frame was glorious. Tall and broad with strong shoulders and slim hips. His hands were big where they held the whiskey bottle, his arms roped with muscle and a few tattoos that I couldn't make out.

  "Sounds perfect."

  For a moment, he froze, like he hadn't expected me to say that. But when he turned, a pleased grin covered his stupid-handsome face.

  "It may be a rubbish drink." Setting the whiskey down, he crouched in front of one of the boxes on the floor. "I have ginger ale and soda water, both room temp."

  When I grimaced, he laughed.

  "I know," he said. "It's a tragedy, to be sure."

  "Ginger ale, I guess."

  Jude went to work, fixing two rubbish drinks while I wandered the space and trailed my hand along a small bar cart lined with bottles in all shapes and sizes.

  Opposite of the boxes was a daybed, and I smiled at the sight of it.

  "A thing for beds then too?" he asked. This question had his voice pitched lower, and the suggestiveness was obvious.

  "I wanted a bed like that when I was younger." The comforter was basic blue and white stripes and adorned by a simple white pillow. But the frame, an ornate white and gold metal, was straight out of my ten-year-old fantasy.

  "And your parents didn't oblige? The horror," he teased.

  I sighed. It didn't feel like the kind of night when you said things like, well, my dad was a shit ton older than my mom, he died of a heart attack when I was little, she freaked out and decided being a single mom wasn't her jam so she bolted, leaving us in the custody of my older half-brother.

  "I shared a room with my twin sister until we were fourteen, so bunk beds were pretty much a done deal."

  He hummed, bracing one of those broad shoulders on the wall. His dark eyes tracked me as I continued exploring. "Twins, eh?"

  I gave him a warning look. "If you make a dirty joke right now, I'm out of here."

  "I wouldn't dream of it." He held out a lowball glass.

  Approaching slowly, I realized that Jude had hardly moved since I changed my shirt. He'd let me move toward him, at my pace, in my time.

  Our fingers brushed when I took the drink, and it caused the slightest lift of his chin, a slow inhale expanding his chest.

  "The picture in there." I tilted my head toward the space where I changed. "That your brother?"

  Jude lifted his dark eyebrows briefly. "It is. I forgot that was in there."

  "He doesn't look much younger than you."

  "Only about two years between me and Lewis," he answered. No other offer of information, but I suppose that wasn't the point of this little exchange. If all we wanted to do was talk, we could've carried our asses back downstairs.

  "You were wearing a soccer jersey," I accused. "No wonder you got so touchy."

  The smile that spread over his face after I said that could only be described as predatory. Anticipatory.

  Yet again ... my thighs squeezed helplessly. Holding his eyes, I raised the glass to my lips and sipped slowly. Then swallowed painfully.

  It was horrible.

  For someone whose brother owned a bar, he made epically shitty drinks. Or ... maybe I just hated whiskey. I'd never actually tried it before.

  Jude took a sip of his own, licking his bottom lip as he lowered the glass. "You must enjoy a good sparring match to keep poking this particular bear."

  I grinned. "Maybe I do."

  He straightened to his full height, and flutters exploded in my belly. He'd cover me entirely should we stretch out on that bed. He'd blot out the light and be able to dominate me as he saw fit.

  "I'm not surprised Americans en masse don't understand," he said. After another sip, he set his glass down. "You're not the best at it, so naturally, it's rubbish."

  I took a sip too, but I kept my glass gripped in my hands because the gentle tone of his voice just before he took a prowling step toward me made me feel ... inexperienced. No, I was no shaking virgin at twenty-two, but Jude was clearly older. Clearly better at this than I was.

  "Such a tragedy that we're not," I whispered. "All that flopping on the ground, pretending to be injured. Sounds like a tough game to master."

  Jude emitted a shocked gust of laughter. But his eyes glowed. My cheeks felt warm.

  "You are ..." his voice trailed off, but his gaze tracked down the entire length of my body.

  I backed up a step, my shoulders hitting the wall behind me.

  "I'm what?" I set my glass down on top of the box.

  "Frustrating." He took another step.

  "I've heard that a time or two." My hands curled into fists to keep from reaching for him.

  "I'll bet you have," he murmured. His fingers picked at the hem of the shirt, which skirted my hips. He managed to wind some of it in his grasp without touching me. My skin burned from that lack of touch. I wanted his big hands everywhere. "I'll bet you love driving people insane."

  My chest rose and fell rapidly.

  "Look at you." He fisted the shirt, yet instead of tugging me toward him, he used that to anchor me in place. "It's right there in those blue eyes how badly you want to say something else."

  I rubbed my thighs together. He noticed.

  My chin tilted up in challenge. "You think you've got me pegged?" Now it was me who licked my bottom lip, and he huffed air from his nose, a bull ready to charge if I waved my flag just one more time. "You don't know me."

  "Isn't that the appeal?" His other hand rose, just the pad of his thumb landing in the middle of my mouth. "Don't tell me it's not." He dragged my bottom lip down, and oh, my gawd, I was panting audibly. "The only thing you know right now is that you want me over top of you. You want me between those pretty, long legs." He dipped down and ran his nose along my cheekbone, his mouth ghosting over my skin. Just shy of touching me.

  My hand shot out and grabbed the waist of his jeans, my fingers curling over the edge, hot, hard skin against the back of my knuckles. Jude pulled his head back and stared down at me, his forest green eyes unreadable, unfathomably deep.

  His jaw clenched. "Am I wrong?"

  "Do you have protection?" I asked. That was my answer to his question, and the way his eyes flared, he knew it.

  "Back pocket."

  My hand slid from the waistband, and I brushed against his length as it did. He inhaled sharply, and oh, more thigh squeezing because he was not wrong. I did want him over top of me and between my legs. I wanted this night of crazy after a day of feeling inexplicably sad and
lonely. I wanted to find some physical comfort in the arms of this man who I'd just met.

  Maybe it was irresponsible. Maybe it was ill-advised. But it didn't feel like either of those things.

  Every so often, I felt an urge to do something insane like this. Normally, I could cap it. I could seek a safer comfort elsewhere in my life.

  But no one was here to stop this impulse and allow me this outlet. Just me and him, about to tip over the edge together.

  When I reached into his back pocket, I felt the foil packet. Okay, so he walked around with condoms. But if I looked and sounded like him, I'd probably do the same thing. It was a miracle half of London wasn't here tossing panties at him.

  The hand on my lip trailed down my jaw, only stopping when he gripped the back of my neck. Hard.

  His eyes flared at whatever he saw on my face. So what if he had a condom in his pocket? It was possible that this night was as strange for him as it was for me. A role was being played by both of us.

  It was possible he didn't make a habit of sleeping with bedraggled tourists, just like I didn't make a habit of falling into bed with a perfect stranger.

  But tonight ... the role was exactly what I needed. Maybe it was what he needed too.

  I tossed the condom onto the bed and met his gaze straight on. "Are you going to stare at me all night or put your money where your mouth is?"

  My words were swallowed immediately when he dived, his mouth taking mine in a fearsome kiss.

  Arms wrapped around his neck, fingers digging into his thick hair like I'd done it a million times, and Jude angled his head, sweeping his tongue into my mouth like he'd done it the same amount of times. My hips angled out, his angled in, and then he boosted me up against the wall with one strong hand under my ass.

  I wasn't entirely sure anymore who was the bull and who was waving the flag because as he sucked my tongue into his mouth and pulled a whimper from my lungs, it felt like we were charging headlong at each other, destined for a collision of epic proportions.

  His hands ripped at my clothes, mine did the same.

  There was very little finesse as teeth tugged at lips in sharp bites. He gripped the flesh underneath my leggings in big, grasping hands, and he muttered dirty words into the skin of my neck when I shoved his zipper down and wrapped my hand around him.

  The clean shirt fell to the floor, and he tugged my bra strap off my shoulder, sucking kisses covering the hot skin he found underneath the black lace.

  I writhed against the wall, trying, trying, trying to scramble higher, get closer, touch more of him.

  His kisses were dirty, his tongue alone making me see stars as he pushed it rhythmically against mine. I tugged fiercely on the strands of his hair until he pulled back. His hair was a disaster, his lips swollen from my kisses.

  "Look at you," he whispered. With surprising tenderness, he brushed his knuckles along my collarbone. "Bloody gorgeous."

  Was it a cliché to admit in my head that a man like him, with the eyes and the smile and the muscles, saying I was bloody gorgeous in that accent had me ready to do backflips if that was what he asked for?

  "Bed. Now."

  At my command, he grinned.

  He walked us over, and when my ass hit the bed, he didn't immediately fall on top of me. He towered above the bed, staring down at my half-naked form sprawled over the comforter.

  "Leggings. Off."

  I raised an eyebrow at his return command, but my hands slowly pushed them down my hips. He sucked in a sharp breath when I kicked them off. My fingers trailed a delicate circle around my belly button, and he bared his teeth like I'd just shown him something delicious that he couldn't wait to devour.

  His jeans were shucked off quickly, and I tried to keep my eyes from widening.

  Because hot damn, he was bloody gorgeous. No, it didn't sound as good in my head with my boring American voice, but when Jude covered himself and prowled over top of me, I didn't care if it didn't sound as good in my head.

  I stopped thinking altogether and let him warm the parts of me that were cold, let him suck and kiss and taste.

  I let him pin my hands down on the bed.

  I let him push my thigh up over his shoulder.

  I let him roll his hips in sharp snapping thrusts until I screamed in back-arching relief.

  Say words and phrases into my skin that I'd never had a man say to me.

  And before long, after he shouted my name and stared down at me like he'd just seen a glimpse of friggin’ heaven, I let him sag on top of me, sweat-soaked back and muscle-covered arms slick against my own skin.

  I let him kiss me softly as we both came down from an impossibly high peak. My heart hammered in my chest, and I had the thought that I should get up. That I should get dressed and go get on the train.

  He pulled away from my body, and I winced, which made him grin unrepentantly. I slugged him in the arm, and he laughed, pulling me back into his arms.

  "I should go," I whispered even as my arm slung over his abs, and I kissed the skin over his still-pounding heart.

  "Just stay for a little," he whispered back. "I'm not quite ready for tonight to be done, love."

  My eyes drifted shut. "Just for a little."

  Everything caught up with me when I did. Exhaustion seeped into my bones, from the day and this unexpected evening, a lovely weight tethering me to that bed.

  Just for a little.

  It was my last thought until the sun rose.

  Chapter Four

  Lia

  What a cliché.

  When you pry your eyes open to an unfamiliar room with the unfamiliar weight of an unfamiliar man's arm over your waist, it's one thing. But when all of those things hit you after you realize that you've spent the night somewhere you shouldn't have, jeopardizing the first meeting with your intellectual idol, it's enough to make a grown-ass woman break down into tears.

  "Shiiiiiit," I muttered under my breath.

  A quick glance over my shoulders revealed Jude, sound asleep in all his naked glory. In the bright light of the next morning, he was so beautiful it wasn't even right.

  The blanket he'd pulled over us only covered him to his waist, and Lord, his chest and abs were enough to make me pause when I really didn't have time to be pausing. His pecs were the size of freaking dinner plates, and each neat square of muscle lining his stomach was holy shit perfect. What a waste to spend the entire night with a body like that and only enjoy it once.

  I wasn't embarrassed that I'd slept with him because, after that experience, I don't think any woman would have doubts. That was scream it from the rooftops sex. But even with that knowledge, I inched my way out of the bed slowly, doing my very best not to wake the sleeping hottie.

  What I didn't want was the awkward exchange. He'd said it himself; the appeal of the entire exchange was the anonymity. He knew nothing about me, and I knew nothing about him. And I wasn't particularly in any position to start anything, even if he wanted.

  As I tugged on my leggings and looked back at him again, his big hand sprawled over his muscled chest, I wasn't sure my pride could handle it very well if he brushed me off upon waking. My shirt was in a heap by my feet, and when I bent over to pick it up, he moved, groaning deep in his chest before he rolled onto his side.

  The groan. I had to close my eyes when I thought of him making that sound the night before.

  Yeah, I'd be retelling the story of that night for generations because I'd earned the right.

  At one point, I had a vague recollection of that voice groaning, bloody perfect.

  A sound from the street below had me snapping out of the post-coital recollection because I needed to get my ass to Paddington to catch a train back if I had any hope of getting to my meeting with Catherine Atwood on time.

  She'd offered me this chance when I met her at one of her guest lectures back home in Seattle, and no way was I going to blow it because a hot guy made me see stars.

  Not only would I be a cliché but
I'd also kick my own ass for my stupidity.

  With my purse and jacket tucked tightly under my arms, I paused by the bar cart when I spied a napkin and a pen.

  Just in case you need more sports tips, I scrawled, followed by my cell number. It was enough finality that I could walk away from the tiny room without obsessing. There'd be no questioning whether I should message or call or casually drop by the pub for another pint because I had no way to reach him. With a deep breath, I closed the door quietly and crept down the stairs. When I turned the corner, I froze when I spied the bartender sitting at one of the stools.

  His eyebrows rose slowly, then he cleared his throat, turning his attention back to the white mug sitting in front of him.

  "Good morning," he said.

  "Morning." I motioned to the door. "I'm guessing you can lock up behind me."

  He rolled his lips, clearly hiding a smile as he nodded.

  "Good." I hitched my purse.

  Carl, I think his name was, turned slowly on the stool. His cheeks looked a little pink, and I found his embarrassment more endearing than I should. His eyes could hardly hold mine as he stood. "Coffee for the train, dear? I've got a takeaway cup."

  I smiled. "That would be amazing, thank you."

  He nodded, tugging on the door that closed off the bar. He deftly poured the steaming, black liquid into a tan cup before he looked up again. "How'dya take it?"

  "A couple of sugars if you have them."

  He snagged a few packets from one of the table holders, then set them on the bar. Gratefully, I picked it up and tucked the sugars into my purse. "You're an angel, Carl."

  His smile was soft. "That's the first time I've ever been called that particular name, but you're welcome all the same." His eyes darted back toward the stairs. "Far to go?"

  "Oxford."

  He whistled. "Best get moving then. It'll be busy first thing in the morning."

  Holding up the cup, I smiled. "Thanks again."

  For the coffee.

  And not treating me like I'd done the walk of shame through an actual bar when, in fact, that was exactly what I'd done.