Despite myself, I almost smile. “It means not wasting time.”
“Or maybe you just like knowing what to expect,” she says, a slight smile playing on her lips—those same lips that were on mine last night, that left a trail of kisses down my chest, that wrapped around my—
Christ, Adams. Cop the fuck on.
“There's nothing wrong with that, you know. Some people need structure to feel safe.”
That's...uncomfortably accurate. And kinder than I deserve, considering I've just spent the last five minutes defending my pathological need for routine. Considering I left her alone this morning rather than face the uncertainty of what could come next.
“I have a four-year-old,” I find myself saying, needing her to understand even though I'm not precisely sure why it matters. “Structure keeps things manageable.”
“Of course it does.” She squeezes my arm gently, and the simple gesture threatens to undo me. “But even the best dads need a break sometimes.”
The understanding in her voice does something strange to my chest, making it feel tight and warm and vulnerable. I don't respond, and she doesn't push. She simply continues walking beside me, her arm still linked with mine, comfortable in our shared silence.
And even so, or maybe because of that fact, my mind can’t help screaming about the dangers of continuing down this road. Of relishing the ease between us. Last night was supposed to be just sex. Yes, it was incredible, mind-blowing, life-altering sex, butthis?
Thisis how you catch feelings, Adams.
We descend into the Tube station. It's packed—Friday lunch hour in central London. Bodies everywhere, the smell of wet coats and underground air, someone's takeaway curry mingling with the metallic scent of the tracks.
I hate the Tube during rush hour. The chaos, the unpredictability, the way people press too close and invade personal space without a second thought.
In my delirium, I got carried away and forgot to call my driver, Gerald. Looks like I’m about to pay for that oversight.
Yet somehow, with Rory's arm still linked with mine, it's...tolerable. Almost pleasant, even. Like she's a buffer between me and the rest of the world, turning chaos into something manageable.
We board the train, and she steadies herself against me as it lurches forward, though she doesn't move away after. The carriage is packed, forcing us closer together as more people squeeze on at each stop.
My hand finds her waist—ostensibly to steady her—but my fingers curl possessively against her hip, fitting into the curveexactly the way they did last night when I woke her up to pull her onto my lap so I could bury myself inside her and watch her come apart for me.
I feel her breath hitch at the touch, and I know she's remembering it too.
When I glance down, she’s looking up at me, those blue eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. The noise of the Tube fades to background static. All I can focus on is the way her pupils dilate, the slight part of her lips, the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat—the same pulse point I traced with my tongue, the same spot that made her gasp and arch into me.
The train sways, pressing her closer, and neither of us makes any effort to create distance. My thumb traces slow circles against her hip through her coat, and I watch the way her breathing quickens, the way her cheeks flush.
I want to kiss her. Right here, in the middle of this crowded train. I want to find out if her lips taste the same in daylight as they did in darkness.
“You're staring,” she murmurs, but there's no accusation in it, just an observation. Curiosity. Maybe even an invitation.
“So are you,” I reply, my voice rougher than intended. Thick with a desire I'm not even attempting to hide.
Her lips curve into the smallest smile, pupils dilating until there’s barely any blue left. “Fair point.”
My thumb continues its unconscious pattern against her hip, and I'm rewarded with the slight flutter of her eyelashes before she leans almost imperceptibly closer.
This is insane. I'm standing on the Tube, having a silent conversation with a woman I slept with last night, and all I can think about is how badly I want to do it again. How I want nothing as much as to take her back to my hotel room and spendthe entire afternoon remapping every inch of her skin with my hands and mouth.
How Ineedto hear her scream my name again.
The air surrounding us feels electric, charged with possibility and memory and barely restrained desire. But before I can act on impulse—before I can do something monumentally stupid like kiss her in the middle of the Northern Line—the automated voice announces Covent Garden station is the next stop. The spell breaks, though not entirely. Her hand is still on my chest, her body still pressed close, and I'm in no hurry to change that.
“Fair warning,” she says as we pull into the station, her voice slightly breathless. “I'm going to want to look at everything.”
My chest rumbles with a deep, genuinely amused chuckle. “Everything?”
“Every stall. Every shop. Every ridiculous overpriced ornament.” She grins up at me, unrepentant. “It's my first proper London Christmas market.”
