Finding London, Ellie Wade [different e readers txt] 📗

I shake my head to get the vision of London’s throat swallowing out of my mind.

“I don’t need an excuse to touch you, London. If I touch you, it will be because you want me to.”

Her eyes go wide at that statement. The corner of my mouth tilts up into a smile. London is such a strong woman, and she goes after what she wants. It’s one of the aspects of her personality that I find so appealing. Yet I love when I say something that stops her in her tracks even if it’s only for a moment. It’s oddly invigorating.

The movie starts, and we set our drinks on the wheel well, so we can lean back against the pillows. The night air carries a bite, and I cover us with a light blanket. The theater plays back-to-back movies. Both of tonight’s selections are action flicks, which I thought sounded good for a first date.

I’m on a motherfucking first date. London has another one of my firsts.

We both wiggle around to get comfortable, repositioning the blankets and pillows beneath us. Finally, I lay my inner arm out, and London falls back onto it, arranging her body tightly against mine.

Time passes, and I realize that I haven’t followed a second of the movie. Who gives a damn about the movie?

Instead, I find myself listening to London’s breaths while relishing the way her body feels against mine and the warmth it brings. It’s a relatively still night, but the air that does move around us bears her scent. Her hair smells like vanilla paired with fruity sweetness. She’s also wearing some sort of perfume that’s as intoxicating as it is alluring.

Everything about this woman fascinates me. No amount of denial or refusal could prevent it. Most confusing to me is, the attributes I find appalling on other women, I find captivating on London.

I’m losing my mind. That’s all there is to it.

I take in her facial features. It’s dark, but with the light from the movie screen, I can see her profile. I scan from her chin to her full lips and move past her small nose to the long lashes that I know frame the most mesmerizing eyes I’ve ever seen.

She must feel the weight of my stare because she turns on her side so that we are facing each other. “Don’t like the movie?” Her voice is a low purr.

“Something like that.”

A storm of lust rises inside me. I position myself on my side so that my hands have access to her. I thread my fingers through her scalp. I pull her face toward me, and I meet her halfway before crashing my mouth onto hers.

The sexy whimper that comes from her fuels my desire, and I deepen the kiss. Our lips nip and pull. Our tongues twirl and taste. Our mouths devour, taking what they want. The kiss is desperate and sensual, loving and rough. It mirrors the short relationship that I’ve had with London—so back and forth at every step, full of equal parts want and fear. Most of all, the kiss is saturated with undeniable need, a need that only London has ever given me.

Beneath the blanket, our hands roam above our clothes. I feel the feminine curves of her body, and I draw it all in, committing every last detail to memory. I want to know everything about London. I want to remember every inch of her body—each dip, each curve, each beautiful piece. To me, she is perfect, and perhaps that’s why I can’t stop myself when I know I should, why I can’t stop myself when I know I’ll eventually hurt her.

In my life that has been full of disappointment, I’ve earned the right to be selfish, haven’t I?

Yet, even as these thoughts fill my mind, I know that makes me as bad as all the rest of the people that I’ve encountered that put their cruel needs above the happiness of others. It makes me a monster. I’m no different. I’m taking what I want when I know I’ll hurt her. What does that say about me?

I’ve strived so hard to be someone that my parents could have been proud of, someone different than the evil people I grew up with, I’m risking losing it all, losing myself, over a girl.

But she’s not just any girl, is she?

And then there’s the voice, the tiny whisper, that is barely audible. It tells me it could be different, I could be different, for her.

That small voice reminds me of the coincidental meetings, how the universe kept throwing her in my path. Words are heaved into my head—fate and destiny. I loathe those words because, if they were real, if they existed, then that means I was meant for the life I was given. I was meant to experience such sorrow and pain. And that doesn’t sit well with me. No child should go through a fraction of what I did. Fate is a fucking lie, and destiny is its bitch-ass cousin. They hold no place in my world because, if they did, if I were destined for such loss, I probably would have given up a long time ago.

But that whisper gives me something else—hope. It’s so miniscule within my soul that I can barely feel it, but it’s there. It gifts me just enough hope to keep kissing her, just enough to continue to savor her, just enough to ignore the warning bells in my head, telling me that I should stop.

Just enough.

But, suddenly, kissing her isn’t enough. I need more. I have to touch her. With the way she is rubbing herself against my body, I know that she wants me, too. She needs it as much as I do. We are two of the same. Our wants are desperate, and our needs overpower our reason while our lust screams the loudest.

My callous hand slides under her shirt, finding its way to her bra. I run my finger under the curve of the wire. She moans into my mouth, pushing her pelvis into my leg, begging me to continue. I put my hand underneath the wire and push the fabric up until I can feel the weight of her softness in my hand. I run my thumb along the taut nipple before pulling and teasing it between my fingers. She squirms against me.

Our lips continue their assault on one another as my hand moves to the other side and repeats my movements. After I’ve paid equal attention to both of her breasts, my hand roams down her smooth belly to the waist of her jeans. I run my fingers along the waistband, feeling the excited tremor of her skin.

I break our kiss and find her stare. Her eyes are hooded, her lips swollen, her hair tousled and sexy. She nods, granting me permission.

With one hand, I unbutton her jeans and push them down enough to grant me access. I slide my hand underneath her panties, and she closes her eyes on a soft moan, her head falling back onto a pillow. I push two fingers into her entrance, taking pleasure in the warmth that wraps around me. I drop my head to her neck and breathe her delicate skin in as my hand begins to move. She grasps my arm and back, digging her fingers into my skin. Quiet whimpers come from her lips.

I drag my lips up and down her neck, kissing and sucking, unable to keep from tasting her. My fingers continue to savor her as the palm of my hand moves against her sensitive skin.

Writhing against me, she bites her lip, attempting to hold in her groans of pleasure.

“Oh God,” she whispers into the night air. “Please, Loïc, please,” she chants.

I love the way my name falls from her lips, the way she begs me to touch her when that’s all I want to do. It causes a storm of need to fill me up. My body threatens to blow with the sweet ache of all-consuming want. I’ve never wanted someone the way I want London. The intensity in which I need her is unsettling. It screams of devastation and loss, warning me to be cautious. But I ignore it all, except for her desperate pleas.

“Loïc,” she breathes. Her voice is so needy that she sounds like she’s in pain.

“I got you.” I kiss her neck as my hand picks up speed.

Her body quakes, and I kiss her lips, catching her cries in my mouth. My mouth continues to caress her lips until her body stops quivering. Then, I move my kisses to her neck once more as she takes in breaths of air.

That was the single most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced, and I know where London is concerned, it’s only going to get better.

I pull my hand from her pants and button her jeans back up. I’m propped up on one elbow as I stare down at her satisfied smile.

“You’re good at this first-date stuff,” she says, her voice airy.

I run my thumb across her cheek, simultaneously trying to figure out how I got here and how to never leave. I respond with, “I’m glad,” for lack of anything better.

“We could go back to my place, if you want?”

I know what she’s implying because I want it, too.

“Not tonight, London.”

“But another night?” she asks hopefully. “There will be a second date, right, Loïc?”

“That depends.”

“On?” she questions.

“I need you to know that I will hurt you. I won’t want to, but I will. I have more baggage than you can imagine. This”—I wave my finger between us—“will end badly. You should know, I always end up losing everything I love.”

Her eyes soften. “You love me?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.” I pause. “But I will.” The words shock me as they leave my mouth, but I know they are true. How could I not fall for London? It’s only a matter of time, and I’m sure it’s not much time at that.

“I want that second date, Loïc.”

Her words penetrate me profoundly. My heart slams against the wall of my chest.

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely,” she answers.

I lean my forehead against hers. Our chests expand as we both work to find enough air to satisfy the ache of emotions raging through our bodies.

Deep within my soul, the whisper of hope gets marginally louder.