There was just enough presence of mind left to pull a condom out of my wallet and don it before I thrust inside her snug heat. I groaned in utter relief as she cried out, her features tight with pleasure. Then I fucked her against my front door, watching her unravel, getting off on the fact that I could make her lose her mind too. My release followed on the heels of her climax.
“We’re not done,” I warned her gruffly as I ground into her, wanting more. “I plan on keeping you up all night, little darling.”
She panted for breath, eyelashes fluttering, cheeks flushed delightfully. “No arguments here, Mr. Cavendish.”
I grinned against her throat. “There’s my good girl.”
Her inner muscles throbbed around me and I could feel myself growing hard again. My Sarah was a dichotomy. Fucking hated it when I said anything so patronizing likegood girloutside of the bedroom, but when I was inside her, those words definitely hit the spot.
“Come.” I reluctantly withdrew from her. “Let’s christen my bed before I take you against the door again.”
Nineteen
THEO
Despite rowing every day since we’d arrived in London, I still felt my muscles tiring quicker than usual. I was out of shape.
I breathed through the burn, my eyes flicking from the screen where my avatar cut through the Thames, to the television screen mounted on the wall. The machine wasn’t the same as rowing on water. Since my rowing team from Oxford had found it increasingly difficult to meet up over the years, I’d taken to single-scull rowing. I’d even invested in a scull that I stored at a facility near the Thames. But it had been more than two months since I’d visited it.
Watching the weather on TV, I noted it was mild enough for the next week to go out there. The problem was I’d become a little consumed with Sarah. Today was the first day since our arrival that we’d parted. She’d wanted to meet her agent by herself, so I’d put her in a cab and sent her on her way.
Perhaps I needed to return to some semblance of my own schedule too.
That wasn’t to say the last few days hadn’t been fun. I wondered if I’d truly had fun in years after experiencingLondon with Sarah. I’d taken her shopping on Oxford Street and convinced her to spend money on a few items of clothing she’d never have bought otherwise. I’d been admonished by a sales assistant who caught me feeling Sarah up in the changing rooms. Sarah had flushed a delightful pink, and it had been exceedingly difficult to walk away. We strolled to Piccadilly to shop some more and then returned to Oxford Street in the evening so she could see the Christmas lights. Afterward, we jumped in a cab to go eat at 34 Mayfair so I could show her their outlandish Christmas bauble display that filled the entire ceiling and dripped down into the room.
The day after that, I took her ice skating at the Natural History Museum. It had been years since I’d skated, but muscle memory was quite remarkable. Sarah had skated once in her life, so it took her a while to get her ice legs. I had to admit to enjoying having to hold her through most of the experience. Last night, we finished off the day in the West End. Sarah’s grandfather had taken her to the theater when she was a teenager, but nothing quite like a West End show. I spent most of the musical watching her and the way she lit up from the inside.
In the past week and a half, I’d gotten tremendous pleasure out of introducing her to new things and was already listing my favorite international cities to take her to next.
A cheer sounded from the screen on my rower, and I realized I’d completed my row. Slowing to a stop, I reached for the water bottle attached to the equipment just as a news report on the television drew my attention.
“Scotland Yard is issuing a new warning to the public today after a fourth woman was murdered two nights ago in High Wycombe,” the news reporter announced. “The victim’s identity has not yet been released by police, but they revealed in theirstatement that she does fit the profile of victims in what they’re calling the Hangman murders.”
Unease flickered through me at the nickname. I’d used that same name in theKing’s ValleyTV show because North’s character, Charlie King, hung his victims after he’d killed them.
“Police are urging people not to walk alone at night, in particular, women between the ages of twenty and thirty years. Last year the Hangman killed his first victim in December. The second victim was murdered in June this year. The third woman, a primary school teacher, was killed in October …”
I reached over for the remote and switched off the news. Sarah had been right. It looked like Britain had a new serial killer. Discomfort rode my shoulders, and I decided if she didn’t return home from her meeting with the agent by sundown, I’d go out and meet her. She was older than the other victims, but she didn’t look it. And yes, I knew the probability of Sarah becoming a victim of a serial killer was unlikely, but one could never be too careful.
Twenty minutes later, I’d just gotten out of the shower when I heard banging on my front door. A rush of pleasure filled me as I wondered if Sarah had forgotten the spare key I’d given her.
I opened the door with a grin that promptly slipped off my face.
“Sebastian.”
My brother glowered at me as he bulldozed into the apartment.
“Well, come the fuck in,” I snarled, outraged.
“Shut the door,” he demanded like a typical, entitled peer of the realm.
Since I didn’t want my neighbors to hear my business, I did indeed shut the door.
“What the fuck do you want?” I followed him into my living room, eyeing the way he studied my home with a pinched expression.
“For you to stop sayingfuck, for starters,” the pompous bastard admonished like I was a schoolboy.
Drawing on my patience, I plastered on a neutral expression. “What are you doing here, Sebastian?”
