CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jennings
There was a group dinner tonight—included with the tour package. Billed as a premier dining experience or some nonsense. It was an agonizing affair that took up the better part of three hours. George was there, which I’m sure is customary but nonetheless annoying. He sat at a table with Daisy while I was across the room with Nan and a couple from Japan. Daisy spent the dinner looking anywhere but at George, which was somewhat mollifying. George for his part just looked confused.
The restaurant was medieval-themed, complete with dim lighting and food served on wooden platters set in the middle of the table and drinks served in pewter tankards. It was awful. Nan, however, was delighted by the atmosphere and everyone else appeared to be having a good time as well so clearly the issues were mine. I’d have taken a godforsaken American chain restaurant with utensils wrapped in a paper napkin over eating with my fingers, but all that matters now is that it’s over. Thank fuck.
I spent most of the dinner forcing myself not to think about what Daisy looks like naked lest I get a hard-on. A mission accomplished, just barely.
But now we’re back at the hotel for the night. Finally, blissfully back at the hotel. Tomorrow the tour moves to Williamsburg, Virginia for two nights. But tonight, Daisy’s tour guide work is just about done and I’ll finally have her to myself.
I escort Nan to the lift and bid her a good night before retreating to the lobby to wait for Daisy. Circumspectly, of course. She’s busy answering questions for a couple from the tour so I pretend to be interested in a rack of promotional flyers located in the lobby. I pick one up for a duck tour—an amphibious vehicle that drives the streets of DC before splashing into the Potomac River and cruising the rest of the tour. I give thanks that I won’t be subjected to a ride on a hybrid car/boat and stuff the flyer back into the stand while watching Daisy nod along to whatever the couple she’s speaking with is droning on about.
Watching her makes me think of my first job out of university. It’s been… what, fourteen or fifteen years now? Fuck, was I ever twenty-two? For a moment maybe, a lifetime ago. My dad’s voice rings loudly in my head, asking me if I have any intention of slowing down. I wonder if he doesn’t have a point when I realize how fast the years are passing.
But they’re passing so damn enjoyably, I muse with a glance at the lovely Daisy. I catch myself smiling and I have to physically swipe a hand over my mouth to wipe it away. Why slow down when I’m having so much fun?
Besides, work keeps me busy.
My passion has always been success. At work and with women. Right now one very specific woman. I watch her talk to another guest from the tour and wonder if I can skip past offering to buy her a drink tonight. I know it makes me some kind of barbarian arsehole, but I don’t want to offer her a drink. I’ve been waiting for two days, I want her upstairs and naked.
Finally the last of the tour guests head towards the lifts and I note Daisy on their heels, as if I’m not standing here waiting for her. As if she’s just going to slip upstairs without a word. I don’t think so.
“Miss Hayden.” I lay a hand lightly on her arm to stop her from proceeding and she huffs a bit, a cross between a sigh and an exhale as she flicks her eyes to mine. “I believe we have plans,” I remind her.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she says with a tiny insolent shrug.
Changed her mind? Bloody hell. She can’t be serious. I look into her eyes, trying to gauge the situation, searching for a hint of mischievousness, but it’s not there. She’s serious? Why are women so irritatingly complicated? Was I not just musing about how much I enjoy them and now this? Vexing is what they are. Each and every last one of them is a different sort of exasperating, with their own unique combination of things that piss them off. A man’s got to be a mind-reader to decipher what they’re on about half the time, for fuck’s sake.
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.