Big Love Abroad Page 7

  But why wouldn't he at least call? Or text? Or...leave a note? Had we exchanged phone numbers? I couldn't remember. I still hadn't found a plug converter, so my phone was--I dug it out of my purse--yep. Dead as a doornail. I tossed the device back into my purse with a curse, wiggled my feet into my Toms, and headed outdoors.

  I glanced left and noticed the Pret from which Ian had gotten our coffees yesterday, so I headed that way, mentally warring with myself. I wanted to stew and be angry with Ian, but I was also worried that something had happened to him. At Pret, I got a large coffee with milk, a chocolate croissant, and a yogurt with some kind of crunchy berry things in it. I took my time with my breakfast, sitting facing the window, watching people and wondering what I was going to do with myself for the next month.

  And then I saw him.

  Ian.

  Wearing the same clothes as last night, looking haggard, rings under his eyes, hands shoved into his hip pockets, head hanging, trudging slowly down the sidewalk. He was coming from the direction of my rented flat, on the opposite side of the street from me. In a rush, I tossed my garbage into the receptacle and hurried across the street with my coffee in hand. Except, in my haste, I forgot which direction the traffic went and almost got hit by a black taxi, getting horns and curses for my carelessness. Ian looked up, saw me standing in the middle of the road, cars rushing by on either side now, trapping me.

  He stepped out into traffic, holding up his hand. Tires squealed again, horns blared, voices yelled curses, and then he was taking my hand and pulling me onto the sidewalk, hugging me against his chest.

  "Nina, what the bloody hell were you doing? You were almost killed!"

  "I forgot that you drive on the left here," I explained, then backed out of his hold. "What happened last night, Ian? You never came back."

  "I know. I know. I'm so sorry." He ducked his head, running a hand across the back of his neck. "I didn't have your mobile number, and--" He cut off, scrubbing at his face with both hands. He looked beyond exhausted.

  "Ian? What happened? Is everything okay?"

  He shook his head. "It's my dad. He had a heart attack. He called me, while--while it was happening, and told me to meet him at the hospital. I was there all night."

  "Jesus." I went up against him, wrapped my arms around his waist. "Is he okay?"

  Ian shrugged. "For now. He needed major surgery. He's stable, but..." he trailed off, shaking his head, at a loss for words. "I just don't know. They think he's going to make it."

  "Jesus, Ian. I'm so sorry." I handed him my coffee. "Shouldn't you be with him?"

  "Thanks." He took a long sip. "Christ, that's good. He's resting now, he'll be asleep for hours yet they told me, and I didn't want you to think I'd run off on you, so I went to your flat, but you weren't there."

  Ian swayed on his feet, and I struggled to hold him upright. "I think you should lie down. Why don't you come back to my flat with me?"

  "I'm not the sort to just pop off without a word, Nina. I just wanted you to know I hadn't done a runner."

  "I guess you've got a pretty good excuse, as far as vanishing acts go." I led him back toward my flat. "Come on. You need to rest."

  "I could use a lie-down, at that. I haven't slept yet. I was up all night waiting for Dad to get out of surgery."

  "So you've been awake for--"

  "Something like sixty hours now, or thereabouts," Ian filled in.

  "Yeah, you're gonna come home with me and you're going to sleep."

  "Just for a couple hours, though. I need to check in on Dad."

  We arrived at my building and I unlocked the front door and half-dragged Ian up the stairs, letting him lean on me as I unlocked the door to my unit. He was staggering by the time I got him inside and shut the door behind us.

  "I'll just take your couch," Ian said.

  "I don't think so," I said, pushing him toward my bedroom. "Take my bed."

  He didn't argue, just lurched through the doorway and collapsed forward onto my bed. He nudged at the heel of one of his shoes with his other foot, and then grumbled in frustration when he couldn't get the shoe off.

  "Here, let me help you." I untied his shoes and tugged them off, then stripped him of his socks, shoving them into the shoes.

  It was a strangely intimate moment, helping Ian take his shoes and socks off. I pushed that thought down and moved around to the side of the bed, tugging at Ian's hand.

  "Come on," I said. "Come up here by the pillow."

  Ian peered blearily at me through one cracked eyelid as he wiggled upward and laid his head on the pillow, angled partly on his side and partly on his back. The corner of his mouth tipped up in a small, sleepy smile. "Get in bed with me, Nina. 'M not that tired."

  I laughed. "Yes, you are. You can try to charm my pants back off later."

  "Don't need to try. I'll have 'em off before you can think twice."

  "I know," I said, still laughing. "That's the problem. Now shut up and go to sleep."

  "Fine." He shoved one big hand under the pillow, blinked twice, three times, and then his eyes stayed closed.

  I tugged the blanket up around his shoulders and stood beside the bed, watching as he fell deeper into sleep. His mouth went slack, and his features smoothed out. And, unfairly, even in sleep he was gorgeous. In the vulnerability of sleep, Ian Stirling looked more boyishly handsome, softer, somehow. Awake, he was wolfish, beautiful, intelligent, and vibrant. Totally alive, domineeringly present. Asleep, he seemed younger, innocent. I reached a hand out, and before I could stop myself, I brushed a lock of his sandy blond hair away from his forehead, smoothing it aside. I traced a fingertip over the lines in his forehead, touching the lines on the bridge of his nose. He had worry lines on his face, even asleep. Some part of me wanted to take that worry away. Bear some of the weight of it. Replace worry lines with laugh lines.

  What the hell are you thinking, Nina? I withdrew my hand abruptly, jerking it back as if burned. Touching his face tenderly while he slept? Thinking about bearing the weight of his worry? At the moment it felt as if some alien presence had taken temporary possession of my heart. I was in England to study Regency literature, not fall in love with a gorgeous British computer geek.

  And then I realized I'd used a certain three-word phrase entirely too prematurely. Even if just in my thoughts. I backed away from Ian. And then stepped further away. I was out of reach now, and my hand was shaking at my side. What was wrong with me?

  This was why I didn't do casual sex. We hadn't even really had actual penetrative sex yet, and I was gazing adoringly at him while he slept? What the fuck was wrong with me? You're being stupid, Nina. Get a grip.

  This is how naive American exchange students end up living alone with a dozen cats, reading Tessa Dare by candlelight while drinking Two-Buck Chuck by the bottle, reminiscing about the glory days of a summer spent in England, heartbroken over a one-night stand gone awry.

  Get a hold of yourself, Nina. This thing with Ian was just casual fun. Nothing more.

  I nodded firmly, and turned on my heel, closing the bedroom door behind me.

  Yet, somehow, closing the door on temptation felt a little like trying to shove a hungry lion into a hamster cage.

  *

  To distract myself while Ian slept, I went shopping. After explaining to a cabby what I needed, he took me to Marks & Spencer, a department store that sells everything. I picked up an iron and countertop ironing board, a pair of jeans, a sweater, and a lingerie set. I refused to think about why I was buying a new outfit, or how much I was spending. A girl needs a new outfit every now and again, right? Right. Plus, the plus-size selection was incredible.

  Another cabby brought me to Tesco, a supermarket that sells everything, located within walking distance of my flat. I bought a charger for my phone, an electric converter for my curling iron and laptop, some essential groceries, and a box of condoms. I refused to let myself think about that last item either. I didn't even let myself make up justifications.
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  Casual fun. Best to be prepared, right?

  Okay, maybe a few justifications.

  Ian was still asleep when I got home, so I put away my purchases quietly, then sat down with my laptop and mobile hotspot and worked on my thesis for a few hours. Yes, I admit to being an overachiever. Shut up.

  Hours later, Ian was still asleep.

  I refused to check on him. Refused to even take a peek.

  British TV is weird. I came to that conclusion over the next few hours of flipping channels. It's not better or worse, just different. Not what I'm used to, essentially. The production scale and value and methods are different. It's not as slick, not as big budget, but that makes it seem more...intimate. More back-to-basics reliance on content rather than sheer volume of production funding.

  And then I fell asleep watching some kind of talk show. I don't usually remember my dreams. Almost never, in fact. And I'm never aware of dreaming in situ. I also rarely take naps. I'm too busy, too active, too focused on the go-go-go of getting things done to even contemplate falling asleep. So it was exceedingly odd for me to dream of fingers trailing through my hair, to dream of breath on my neck. Fingers, no wrist, no hand, no body, just fingers emerging from some nebulous darkness to feather through my thick black locks, breath hot on my throat, on my neck, on my shoulder, then lips touching my cheekbone, the curve between my throat and breastbone, a tongue scraping ever so gently across the delicate hollow at the base of my throat.

  In the dream, I lifted my chin to bare my throat, because that disembodied kiss was the textbook definition of erotic warmth, of sensual decadence. And then, in the dream, the fingers in my hair transitioned suddenly to sliding across my ear and down my arm and over my hip.

  A strange factoid about Nina Herrera: I unbutton my pants when I watch TV. It's just more comfortable. I like things to breathe, down there. I don't like the feeling of my waistband digging into my belly when I'm trying to relax. I don't even think about it anymore. I just sit down, cover my lap with a throw blanket, and pop the button of my jeans. Maybe nudge the zipper down a little bit.

  Back to the dream: The fingers were now a hand, and the hand was strong and large and gentle and male, and it was exploring the opening of my pants, fingers tracing just above the elastic of my underwear.

  I liked that. In my dream, I moaned and felt a sudden rush of need, felt a dream-intense wish that the hand would explore further down, delve under the silk and elastic. In my dream, I got my wish; fingers angled into my flesh, burrowing under elastic.

  Open up for me, beautiful. The voice was low and slow and rough. It was a voice I had no hope of disobeying. So, in the dream, I let my knees spread apart and flexed my hips to allow the beautiful questing fingers access to the hot, damp, needy part of me.

  Do you want me to touch you? the voice demanded.

  I moaned in the affirmative. I needed it. Needed. God, did I need that touch. I ached. I hurt with need. Fires burned low in my core, fires of hunger that could only be sated by touch.

  Say it, sexy. Let me hear you tell me you want me to touch you.

  I couldn't speak. My dream-voice was gone, my dream-lips sewn shut. I arched my spine and flexed my hips, pushing into the hand, moaning with need.

  Uh-uh. Let me hear you say it.

  "Mmmmmm." That was my voice, I was pretty sure. I sounded wanton. "Please...."

  "Please what?" The voice was a rough rumble. Crisp tones of an accent. The voice sounded familiar, the pronounced hhhh-whuuh sound on the initial syllable of the word "what."

  "Touch me." God, was that really me? I'd never spoken two words with such blatant, sensual demand in my voice.

  Jesus, this dream is intense.

  "It's no dream, Nina. Look at me."

  Wait, what? Confusion barreled through me. I was dreaming, right? Had I spoken that last thought out loud?

  But if I was dreaming, then there wasn't actually anyone to hear, even if I had said it out loud. If it was a dream, was there a difference between thinking and speaking?

  And then the fingers stroked my flesh and the fuzz of closely-trimmed hair just above my opening, and I lost my train of thought. "I'm waiting, Nina. Ask me to touch you."

  "Touch me, please." God, my voice was raspy, breathy.

  "Say my name. 'Touch my pussy, Ian.' Say that to me."

  Anything, ANYTHING to get those fingers inside me. "Touch my pussy, Ian."

  Wait. Ian?

  Ian.

  Holy shit.

  My eyes flicked open as realization hit. Timed conveniently, of course, with Ian's thick fingers spearing into my channel, ripping a moaning gasp from my lips. My eyes found his, found his lips fixed in a sexy smirk. I opened my mouth to ask a question, but then he curled his fingers and stroked me just so, and any capacity for thought was blasted out of me by the crash of pleasure smashing through me. My hips jerked up, and Ian pressed a thumb to my clit, and I spasmed, gasping, moaning, my hands fisting against the scratchy cushion, hips lifting so my ass was clear off the couch. His thumb remained pressed to my clit so I couldn't get away from the white-hot electricity bolting through me, and his two thick and rough and slow fingers curled and straightened and withdrew and slid in and curled, and I came apart, came apart, came apart.

  "Ian...ohFUCKohFUCK!" I heard myself whisper-shout in a hysterical shrill gasping intake of breath.

  I tried to curl in on myself as aftershocks took hold of me, but Ian was jerking my jeans off, and my panties too. My ankles were draped across his shoulders as he knelt on the floor in front of the couch, his broad shoulders angled and curved in front of me like mountains, and his soft sandy, not-quite-reddish hair brushed the now-bare flesh of my inner thighs, and--

  Oh shit.

  His tongue lapped at my juices, slicked up my swollen lips and parted them and delved in. "Mmm. You trimmed."

  "Uh-hunh." It was all the sense I could make.

  "I like it."

  "You--you do?"

  He didn't answer immediately, his tongue being too busy circling my clit to bother with plebeian concerns like words. When I was juddering wildly under his hungry, relentless mouth, shivering on the cusp of a second orgasm, Ian chose that moment to answer.

  "I do like it, yes. I liked it how it was before, too, though. I like both ways. I just like your pussy, however you choose to maintain it."

  "So if I shaved it?"

  "I'd like that too." He reared back a few inches to gaze at the body part in question. "But don't, if you're asking. Just like it is, is best, if you want my honest opinion."

  "Don't shave it bare, then?"

  "Don't." He palmed a hand over me, and trailed his fingers through the slight fuzz. "I like it like this. But don't do anything for me either way. It's your pussy, after all."

  "Ian?"

  He glanced at me. "Yes?"

  I lifted my hips. "Keep going." I reached down between my legs and stroked his hair. "Please."

  "Greedy?" he asked with a grin.

  I nodded. "Yeah. I am."

  He pressed the tip of his tongue to my clit and flicked it with tiny darting licking motions until I was gasping sharply, needing so much more than just his tongue on my clit, but too frantic to be able to ask for it. Thank fuck, Ian seemed to know exactly what I needed without having to be told, because he slipped his fingers back inside me, curled and curved and withdrew and speared back in, finger-fucking me with a wet slick sound, licking my clit, and then I was moaning deep in my throat through gritted, clenched teeth as I exploded under his tongue, around his fingers.

  A moment to catch my breath, and then Ian pulled me to my feet and led me into my bedroom and pushed me so my naked backside bumped against the edge of the bed. He tugged my shirt off and made quick work of my bra, and I was totally naked and standing in front of him, his gaze hot and ravenous, and then his mouth was descending to latch onto my breast, tongue swirling and flicking my rigid nipple, thumbing the other one.

  "Ian..." I managed to murmur
past moans of bliss.

  "Mmmm-hmmm?" He traded one tit for the other, kissing the outer edge, licking the underside, and his fingers traced my opening so my knees buckled.

  "Pants. Yours. Pants off." I was discombobulated in the worst way, dizzy from two orgasms in the space of five minutes and another on the horizon, still sleep-befuddled from the nap, and the disorienting transition from dream to waking.

  "I'm not done with you yet--" he started.

  I growled and pushed him away, ripped open the button and zipper of his jeans, shoved the denim down.

  "Wait, wait--" He bent and shoved a hand in one of the hip pockets, withdrew a small box of condoms, tossed them on the bed. "I did get those, before I got the call."

  I grinned. "I bought some, too. While you were sleeping."

  I finished removing his jeans, pushed his T-shirt up off his head, tossed it aside, and then sank to my knees in front of him, wrapped both hands around his erection and stroked his length. I glanced up at him, batted my eyelashes and smirked, and sank my mouth onto him. He sucked in a breath, his upper lip curling in a silent snarl of feral pleasure. I worked my hand around the stem of his thick cock while sliding my lips around the plump head, suckling and licking as if it were an ice cream cone. Ian gathered my hair in his hands, dug his fingers into it, gripping it by the roots, his eyes heavy-lidded and his broad chest heaving.

  And then he pulled me away, tugging at my hair until I stood up. "Those sexy lips of yours wrapped around my cock is a damned beautiful thing," he said.

  "Then why'd you stop me?"

  "Because your legs wrapped around my hips is going to be even more beautiful. I need to fuck you, Nina. I woke up dreaming about being buried deep in your sweet, tight pussy..." He put his hands on my shoulders and pressed me backward until I fell to the bed. I crawled backward away from him, toward the head of the bed, and he followed me, his eyes on mine, blue as the Caribbean. "I woke up needing you, and there you were, your pants opened for me already, sleeping, looking so sweet, so beautiful, and I couldn't resist. And now I have to have you. I've tasted you, now I have to feel you."

  He snagged the box of condoms, opened it, ripped a packet free, tore it open with his teeth, and rolled the condom down his length in one smooth motion. He knelt over me, muscles hard and rippling, hands on my calves and then sliding up my thighs, tickling and insistent, pushing my knees apart. Ian's narrow hips fit into the 'V' of my thighs perfectly. One hand planted in the mattress at my right ear, the other gripping his shaft, he nudged his tip against my opening. I gasped at the hotness of his rubber-sheathed flesh, at the broadness of his glans as he gently pushed until my labia parted for him. I was slick and wet, aching and ready. I clutched at his sides and pulled, arched my spine, keeping my eyes on his as he edged cautiously deeper.