Chapter One
Gemma
I detest the Tube at peak hour.
“Are you all right?” I say, turning to glare at the person jabbing their elbow into my ribs.
“Sorry,” mutters an older man beside me, busy scrolling through his phone.
We’re crammed into the train carriage like sardines, and unfortunately, it smells just as bad—like a blend of yogurt left out too long and body odor.
The joys of living in a city with a population of nine million.
With a huff, I turn back to the window, my reflection mirrored back at me thanks to the pitch-black tunnel. I push my glasses farther up my nose, watching as the occasional light flashes by. In the glass, I spot a tall man behind me, his back turned with his phone pressed to his ear, barking orders at whoever’s on the other end.
His voice is delicious—smooth and rich, like aged whisky, and I lower the volume of my music to eavesdrop.
“What? No, I can’t hear you properly. You’re cutting in and out… I’m on the bloody underground!” the man says. He pauses, adjusting his stance. “I know the meeting’s at nine.I’ll be there as soon as I can.” And with that, he hangs up, muttering a quiet, “Jesus, I should have taken the car.”
Snob.
Returning to my little bubble, I plug in my AirPods and tap my foot to the beat of the music.
Upon a sudden lurch of the carriage, the tall man crashes into me.
“Ouch!” I cry. Pain explodes through my back as the train suddenly slows down and passengers sway unsteadily. I yank out my headphones, shove them into my trench-coat pockets, and rub the sore spot on my back. I whirl around to deliver a scolding. “Oh, for God’s sake. Just hold on to the strap. It’s not that bloody—”
The man turns and I halt mid-sentence, not by choice, but because words escape me.
“I tried to grab the strap, but the crowd pushed me before I could,” he says. “Are you hurt?”
For the love of all things holy.
He’s at least six foot two, clad in a perfectly tailored dark gray suit. The fabric is undoubtedly expensive—vicuña or cashmere—but it clings snugly to his bulging biceps and thighs.
It’s obvious the bloke works out.
I’m captivated by his pale blue eyes—cool and clear, like aquamarine. His hair is dark brown, flecked with silver at his temples. It has just the right amount of product to give thatI woke up like thislook. His fair skin is flawless, even under the shitty carriage lights. He has a smattering of freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks, while faint stubble peppers his jawline, which is so sharp it could cut glass.
Something about him is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.
Have I seen him in passing? Surely, I would have remembered him had we met. You don’t forget a face likethat.
There’s a casual confidence in his stance. While the rest of us are packed together, he somehow commands his own space. My brain turns to porridge because this stranger is radiating a serious case of Big Dick Energy.
Which just so happens to be my favorite kind of energy.
I don’t get my kicks from running or reformer Pilates. To be honest, I’d rather sit on a pineapple than exercise. However, sex—that’s a form of physical exertion I’m more than willing to engage in, and it definitely keeps my energy levels up. And I’ve become rather good at it, if I do say so myself. Honestly, I deserve a bloody medal. Considering I don’t work out, you’d swear I was an Olympic gymnast.
My favorite kind of sex, however, is the kind where I can sit back and enjoy myself. I like being in control—of course, I do—but after years of taking charge in the bedroom, sometimes I just want a well-equipped man to take charge ofme. And this man looks like he’s capable of doing precisely that.
Powerful men in powerful suits with powerful penises make me very happy, and unfortunately, appear to be few and far between.
Trust me—I’ve done extensive research—this man intrigues me.
He clears his throat, pulling me from my daze.
“Huh?” I ask, still rubbing my back.
