Chapter 1 & 2 Sample
Catching London © 2018 by MV Ellis All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. Catching London is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing. www.hottreepublishing.com Editing: Hot Tree Editing Cover Designer: Claire Smith ISBN-13: 978-1-925655-43-8
He’s not looking to change his bad boy ways. Arlo Jones is a badass millionaire rock star with the world at his feet. He lives the “sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll” lifestyle to the max, and believes in working hard and playing harder. He’s a man who always gets what he wants, especially when it comes to women. Until he meets London. She’s a damaged dancer not looking to fall. All London Llwellyn wants is to rebuild her life following the tragic car accident that robbed her of her fiancé, and ended her career as a professional ballet dancer. She’s working two jobs to scrape together the cash to set up her own studio, and reinvent herself as a photographer. The last thing she wants is to get involved. Arlo promises to always be there to catch her, but can London trust him enough to let herself fall?
Chapter One Chapter Two
Chapter One
Shit. Fuck! Oh no! I’m going to die. Surely my labored breathing is a sign? Or maybe I’m just having a panic attack? After all, there’s a lot to panic about. Even if this is not a heart attack, I’ll be forced to hack my own head off just to put myself out of my misery, but for now, I settle for running about the house screaming like a banshee, tearing off items of clothing and discarding them as I go. By the time I leave the elevator and dash toward the basement bathroom connected to the home gym, I’m completely naked and ready to throw myself into the shower stall. I pause only briefly to hit the on button located on the wall outside the cubicle, and set the water to super-hot. I like a hot shower at the best of times, even more so now when I’m in the midst of a living nightmare, one I’m sure to relive for many nights to come. This is an arachnophobe’s idea of hell, combined with Room 101. The only hope of surviving with my sanity somewhat intact
and minimal emotional scarring is to scrub away the anxiety under the scalding hot water of the top-of-the-range German engineered shower. Technically I shouldn’t be using my employer’s shower, even though they don’t live here, and haven’t done so for years. But these are extenuating circumstances— almost an emergency, or at least as close to an emergency as I hope to ever get at work. Surely anyone else would do the same in my situation? Besides, I’m pretty sure this counts as inhumane working conditions or violates some kind of workplace laws, and if it doesn’t, it should. While I love this house aesthetically, some of the things that make it so gorgeous are the very same things that are the bane of my life. The impressive double height ceilings are a case in point. The rooms are large and spacious, and the ceiling heights add to the effect. They also add to my workload in keeping the house clean. Although it is unoccupied and has been since even before I started cleaning here, the place seems to attract dirt like no property I’ve ever encountered. Between the ceilings, the huge airy rooms, and the priceless objet d’art, it’s a dust mite’s playground. Clearly spiders love it too, if the thousands, possibly millions of tiny daddy longlegs that just rained down on me are anything to go by.
I shudder involuntarily at the thought and scrub even harder at myself, especially my hair. Normally I think of my head of wild curls as some kind of bird’s nest, it’s so thick. But now, I can’t escape the image of those tiny arachnids thinking my hair is part of their natural habitat, and deciding to make it their home, and raise their families there. It’s an irrational thought, given the fact that the spiders are dead is what caused this debacle in the first place. But what phobia is rational? Ugh, my scalp is crawling. If I could just scratch it off and be done with it, I would! I scrub harder still, barely registering that the water is blisteringly hot. If I’m ever going to feel clean again, this is the only way. I don’t care if my skin suffers as a result; it’s worth it for my peace of mind. I’m relieved to see many tiny spider corpses making their way down the drain, but I continue to scrub and shake, as though stuck in some kind of loop. Out of nowhere, the hot water runs cold. I jump against the farthest wall of the shower, trying to avoid the freezing droplets touching my skin. I’ve never liked being cold, so a freezing shower isn’t my idea of a good time. Could this day get any worse?
Apparently it could. I hurry to get out of the cubicle so that I can switch off the water, and end the torture as soon as possible. As I reach for the door, I’m scared out of my skin to come face-to-face with a pair of fierce, bright green eyes. Yeah, so shit just got worse. Much worse. “What the fuck!” I shout. Instead of getting out of the cubicle as I had planned, I push myself back into the corner like a trapped animal. Now I hardly notice the icy water as it rains down on me. After all, there’s a lot worse that can happen to me right now than being cold. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! My mind races, thinking through the ways that this could possibly end well for me, but I quickly come to the conclusion that the prognosis is bleak. I’m trapped in a shower. Naked. In a basement. It doesn’t leave me with too many options. Once I come to this realization, my survival instinct kicks in. I scream, grateful that I have a good set of pipes. I hope that screeching like a crazy woman will buy me some time, or call up some miracle. While I try futilely to cover myself with my hands, I keep my eyes trained on that green glare. I notice that the narrowed slits sit within a young and stupidly handsome face. A quick glance downwards tells me that Green Eyes is topless, inked to the hilt, and buff as all get out. Fuck.
I let my gaze wander even further down. He’s wearing running shorts, but is barefoot. He has tidy toes for someone who may be about to kill me. I quickly raise my eyes again. This guy has more tattoos than anyone I’ve ever seen. They crisscross his chest, arms, and hands, and go up his neck. In my panic, I don’t have time to absorb the detail, but at first glance, he looks like a walking notebook. It’s then that I notice that he is holding something in his hands. It takes me a moment to realize that in his left hand he has the clothes I discarded around the house. From the end of his right index finger, he’s dangling my bra. He swishes his finger from side to side, so that it swings back and forth, like a flag in the wind. This can’t be a good sign. Not good at all. I scream louder than ever at the thought, stopping only to briefly catch my breath. “Shut up! Just. Shut. The. Hell. Up.” If he was angry before, he’s raging now. I’m trapped in the bathroom with an emerald-eyed lunatic! This really is not how I saw my day panning out. I mentally race through my escape options. Not that there are many. In fact, there are none. If by some miracle, I were able to get the better of him (ha!) and make it out of the shower to the elevator, I might have to wait a while for it to
arrive, with Green Eyes in hot pursuit. That is so not a plan. “Please, for the love of God and all that is fucking holy, just shut your mouth! You are not helping my hangover,” he yells, eyes wild. I’m forced to stop screaming, although it’s the last thing I want to do. What now? “Okay, that’s better. Shit. You just about burst my eardrums, and with my hearing, that’s an achievement,” he mutters, looking no less thunderous than before. I thought that his mood might improve if I stopped yelling, but apparently not. I guess there’s no logic with crazies. He rubs the furrow between his well-groomed brows agitatedly. I look at him again. He’s huge—about six foot four—and well built. He’s ripped in that “I work out and am fit as hell” kind of way. Not a muscle-bound meathead, but lean, and cut. “Who the fuck are you?” he barks, reaching down to shut off the water. Whose smart idea was it to have the shower controls outside the cubicle? This whole thing wouldn’t have happened if they were inside like a normal fucking shower. His voice is gruff, and his glare doesn’t leave mine for a nanosecond. Thank God the water’s off—at least I
won’t die of hypothermia. Now I figure that my best way out of this mess is just to brazen it out. “Who am I? Who are you, more like?” I spit back, attempting to match his gruffness. I jab my finger toward him, emphasizing every word, hoping to give the impression that I mean business. He carries on talking, so I guess he’s not convinced. “You fans have done some crazy-ass shit before, but this takes the fucking cake! Did you get a thrill from using my shower? Or did you think I’d find you, jump in and ravish you? That is some full-scale bunny-boiling madness, right there.” He barely pauses for breath before continuing. “I’m pretty obliging, most of the time—interviews, meet and greets, signing underwear, blow jobs, threesomes, kinky fuckery. You name it. Hell, I pretty much bed one of you every night, two on Sundays. ‘Cause that’s the kind of selfless guy I am.” He smirks at his own joke. “But I draw the line at breaking and entering. I’m entitled to the tiniest shred of privacy. In. My. Own. Home. How the hell did you even get in here? Did you have yourself mailed to me, like those girls did to the Beatles?” His fury is palpable as he paces the bathroom like a caged animal. Wait. What?
“Thi… this is your house?” I stammer, teeth chattering. “As if you didn’t know,” he snaps. “N-n-n-n-no. I d-d-d-d-didn’t. I mean, I don’t.” I can’t remember ever being this cold. “Ha! So I suppose you don’t know who I am, either?” He’s incredulous. “No.” I think I have brain freeze. I can’t think straight, let alone speak coherently. He’s obviously trying to decide whether he believes me or not. Something about the look in his eyes tells me he’s erring on the side of giving me the benefit of the doubt. Hopefully that’s a good sign. “Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here? Explain yourself now, or I’m calling the cops.” He punches out each word staccato style. “My name’s London,” I manage to choke out. “Okay, ‘London.’” He looks and sounds skeptical— a reaction I’m used to. “You still haven’t told me what the hell you’re doing in my shower, and in fact, how you got in here, period.” He’s got a point. “I have the key code. I’m with Marigolds,” I offer up hopefully.
“Marigolds?” To my disappointment, he looks puzzled, raising one eyebrow as he mutters the word. Clearly it means nothing to him. Not the response I was hoping for. Shit. “Um, yeah. The cleaning company. I clean here.” As I say this, I’m aware that I’m still naked. Despite my best efforts, and my teeny, tiny boobs, my hands aren’t helping to preserve my modesty. He waves toward my shivering form. “You’re naked in my shower, with a body like that—” He’s looking at me. All of me. He casts an appraising eye over my dripping wet, naked body. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s ogling me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. A wave of dread washes over me. Standing here with him looking me over like this while he calculates his next move is agonizing. Torture, in fact. Oh God, I hope that’s not what he has in mind for me—torture! “—and you expect me to believe that you’re my cleaner?” I realize he’s waiting for me to answer his earlier question. “Um, yeah… yes. I am. Marigolds is my aunt’s company. I was in the shower because when I came in today, I noticed a daddy longlegs on the ceiling with all of
these tiny babies around it. I really hate spiders, but I couldn’t just leave them there, so I went and got the ladder and the bug spray to get rid of them. I didn’t really think it through too well, and right after I sprayed them, I guess they all died, and then they started falling off the ceiling onto me. “Actually, it’s probably more accurate to say that I’m terrified of spiders. I freaked out—completely lost it. I thought I was having a heart attack or something. All I could think about was getting them off me, so I stripped and came down here to shower. I thought I was alone, and I was going to clean up the shower right afterward. The next thing I knew I was trying to scrub myself clean, when the water ran cold, and now you’re here.” I speak quickly and decisively, even though my mind is racing. “Darlin’, you must think I was born yesterday and grew up overnight, if you expect me to believe that bullshit.” He’s still leering. I need to say or do something to get him to stop looking at me like that. Then inspiration hits me. “Business card!” I yell, not meaning to be quite as loud as it comes out. I guess fear will do that to you. “I have a business card in my bag upstairs in the kitchen. You can call and check with my aunt.” I forge on,
attempting to get the situation back on track. I try to keep my voice firm and even, although inside I’m quaking. By now I’m so cold, I swear, if my teeth chatter any more, they’ll fall clean out of my head. Whatever happens, one thing’s for sure—I can’t stay here freezing half to death for much longer. He continues to look skeptical, but I see a subtle shift in his demeanor that gives me hope, so I decide to continue brazening it out. His stare is colder than the water, and almost impassive as I move toward the shower door. He surprises me by taking a few steps backward to allow me to climb out of the cubicle, and more so when he slowly reaches for and hands me a towel, and my clothes, never moving his gaze from mine. He truly has incredible eyes—they’re the most startling shade of green I’ve ever seen, and they sparkle like jewels. As I wrap the warm, luxurious towel around my body, emotions flood me. I’m relieved to be out of the freezing cold shower, but there’s something else too, that I can’t quite put my finger on at first. Then I realize that Green Eyes is still standing so close to me that we’re almost touching. He looks at me, raising a well-groomed eyebrow, a slight smirk playing on his lips. At the same time, he
reaches toward my face, and I flinch, drawing the towel closer to my body protectively, like a child with a security blanket. He winces, and cocks his head. “What, you think I’m going to hurt you?” I stand motionless, but I realize that he’s actually waiting for my response again. I had assumed that it was a rhetorical question. I nod slowly. A look passes across his face. He looks hurt. “I was just going to move the hair out of your eyes.” He sounds hurt too. Damn, something about that look slays me, and I somehow figure that he’s not a danger to me. He continues the movement of his hand, and true to his word, sweeps a few stray tendrils of hair from in front of my eyes. As his fingertips slowly and gently sweep across my forehead, a lightning-like pulse surges through my body, and awareness hits me. He trails his thumb down my cheek, gently smoothing it across my lips. It’s all I can do to resist opening my mouth and sucking on his thumb. What the fuck? Get it together and get your mind out the gutter, cupcake. I give myself a silent pep talk. I move to the bench at the back of the room, placing my clothes on it so that I can dress, but not before shaking everything in case of any lingering spiders. I shudder
involuntarily at the thought. So fucking gross. Turning my back, I hastily pull my T-shirt over my head, forgoing my bra. I just want to be decent as quickly as possible; I’m not concerned with etiquette. As soon as I pull the T-shirt down to my waist, I realize my epic mistake. White T-shirt + wet hair + no bra = wet T-shirt contest, and being so cold, my nipples definitely make their presence known. Bang goes that decency I was aiming for. I drag my cutoffs up my wet thighs hurriedly, forgoing my underwear as well, and I find myself wishing that my shorts were longer. In fact, all of a sudden, my normal uniform of short cutoffs and a hacked-up T-shirt doesn’t seem like such a good idea, after all. I blame Rihanna—it’s pretty much her second skin too. The difference is that she’s always accompanied by a burly security guard, and I’m not. Instead, I’m trapped in a basement with a strange guy, wearing next to nothing. Thanks, @badgalrhirhi, #wheresmybodyguard. It’s then that I notice he has turned his back to allow me some privacy as I dress. Who said chivalry is dead? Now he’s sauntering toward the bathroom door. I follow suit. As he nears it, he stops and pivots back toward me, and I bowl straight into him, slamming into his chest with a loud grunt.
“Shit. Sorry.” He at least has the decency to look apologetic. “I thought I should give you another towel. Your teeth are still chattering. I don’t want you to catch your death of cold because of me.” He looks down, directly at my erect nipples. Yeah. I need that towel, stat. He reaches around me to the shelf above my head, and hands me another plush towel. As he does, his chest brushes up against my nipples, hardening them more. I hope he didn’t notice that, or the involuntary shudder that flowed through me as a result. I wrap the towel around my shoulders like a cloak, grateful for the extra warmth. I’m not warm yet, but I’m a little less cold, and I appreciate the gesture. As he saunters out of the room, I let out the breath I’ve been subconsciously holding, following him across the studio and toward the elevator. It arrives after what feels like an eternity, and I climb into the tiny space. It’s pretty much the last place on earth I want to be right now, but hopefully it’s not the last I’ll ever be. I’m standing a little behind him, so I take the opportunity to get a better look—the mirrors in the elevator affording me a 360-degree view. That. Face. Though. He’s
stupid handsome. The kind of male-model good looks that you only ever see on TV, or in magazines. His stunning eyes sit within an exquisitely chiseled face—Grecian, almost. He’s got the lot—strong jaw, proportionate nose, and beautiful, shapely lips. His thick dark hair, artfully stubbly chin and all-over tattoos only add to the effect. I marvel at the thought that there are people who actually look this good in the flesh, and that I’m trapped in an elevator with one who seems to think I’m some kind of stalker. My eyes travel downward. His body is tanned, toned, and taut. His shapely neck leads to broad, welldefined shoulders. They’re tight and muscular, with a few veins visible just below the surface of his supersmooth skin. His chest is expansive, and he has a rock-solid eight-pack. Abs. From. Hell. The icing on the cake though, is the V. Those muscles that disappear into the top of the waistband, leading down to ground zero are some of my favorite parts of the male anatomy. In my time as a professional dancer, I saw a lot of male bodies, and his definitely comes up to scratch. So fucking sexy. In different circumstances, I’d like to lick that perfectly toned chest and….
My eyes continue to wander just below the V, to the top of his shorts where I can just see the waistband of his designer underpants. My gaze moves down further still, and before I know it, hello crotch! Uh-oh. The soft fabric of his shorts is straining into a tent-like peak—I guess he’s pleased to see me. It’s also clear that he’s got nothing to be embarrassed about in that area. Nothing at all. Wait. What the fuck am I doing? Now is definitely not the time to awaken those types of feelings that have been dormant for so long. I’m disgusted with myself, but then I reconsider. Maybe Marko and Nic are right, and I do need to get laid and get it over with. If I can be thinking this way in this situation, something’s got to give. Ugh, no! I wrench my gaze upward quickly and stare dead ahead, but not before the guy’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. He raises that eyebrow again, having obviously seen me checking him out. Busted. He winks at my reflection. Winks! The blood runs hot in my cheeks. I have never been more mortified in my life. What the hell is wrong with me? The last thing I want is him thinking that I’m into him. Although, turning up naked in his shower probably did that already. Shit.
Chapter Two
We step out into the kitchen area, and I heave a huge internal sigh of relief. I grab my bag and rummage around until I find the card, turning quickly to hand it to him. Next, I shove my redundant underwear into the inside pocket. “Marigolds Cleaning Services,” he reads aloud. “No job too big, or too small. Proprietor, Gloria Cavendish.” He’s clearly still skeptical. I can almost read his mind as he appraises me. “That’s my aunt. Call her. Please.” Do it. Do it. Call the number, I silently urge him. Instead, he swivels on his heel to face me. He narrows his eyes and circles me several times like a hungry lion eyeing its prey. I can see him studying me again, and what a sight I must be—the thin soaking wet fabric of my white T-shirt clinging to my nipples, hair dripping wet and hanging in ragged ringlets, skimming the waistband of my shorts.
Occasionally, water drips into my eyes, causing me to squint. Realizing that this could be a hindrance if I have to flee, I heap it into a messy bun on the top of my head, and secure it with the hair tie that’s perpetually wound around my wrist. Old dancer habits die hard. “What the fuck were you doing in my shower?” he barks. This is starting to feel a whole lot like Groundhog Day. Again. As I didn’t get to dry myself, my legs are still wet. Droplets of water slowly wend their way down my inner thighs, toward my ankles, pooling at my feet. I now regret not taking the time to put my Chucks back on—shoving them in my bag, instead—but I was focused on getting out of the bathroom. Still, barefoot isn’t ideal for a quick getaway. This sucks—I’m standing here in front of this horny big bad wolf, looking like a wet T-shirted Little Red Riding Hood. I take a deep breath before answering him again as calmly and confidently as I can. “I’ve been coming here from seven ‘til eleven every second day for about six months—”
“Have you now? You must have some kind of stamina.” He licks his lips salaciously, so different from how gentle he was with me downstairs, only minutes ago. At first I’m confused by his comment, but then I realize the double meaning in what I said, and my cheeks burn again. I continue hastily. “Working here. Cleaning.” My attempt at seeming unflustered is clearly a big fat fail. “Today with the spiders, I guess I overreacted, but it was like instinct took over. It’s a total phobia. Like, I couldn’t stop myself. It just happened. I was totally going to clean up after myself—I really was. I had no idea there was anyone else here. I’m so sorry….” He finally dials the number, standing so close to me that I can hear Gloria’s phone ringing from his handset. I hope to God she picks up. Just as it’s about to go to voice mail, taking my hopes with it, Gloria answers, panting. Green Eyes puts her on loudspeaker, keeping his gaze fixed on me. “Marigolds Cleaning Services, Gloria speaking, how may I help you?” I’ve never been more relieved to hear her voice. “It’s Arlo Jones,” he responds gruffly.
There’s a small pause. I can tell that Gloria’s rifling through her contacts list, trying to recall exactly who he is. “Ah yes, Mr. Jones! I’m sorry, of course, yes, Rosemond House. How can I help you?” She’s her usual chirpy self, obviously blissfully unaware of the gravity of the unfolding situation. “You can start by giving me some fucking answers,” he growls aggressively. She gasps, and there’s another pregnant pause before she speaks again. “Umm… I’m sorry… I don’t…. What would you like to know?” She’s flustered by his tone and harsh words, understandably so. “Well,” he sneers. “Maybe you can start by explaining why I’ve returned home from touring and tried to jump in the shower after my morning workout, only to find someone in there already. She claims to be your niece and my cleaner. Pretty little thing. Loooong legs.” He drags out the word long in an exaggerated fashion. “Dark hair with ringlets down her back, lattecolored skin, huge brown eyes, ass like two grapefruits in a string bag. Sound familiar?” As he speaks, he places his index finger at my nape, and gently traces an invisible line up to the bun heaped on the top of my head. He slides his finger back down again,
coming to a stop at the base of my neck. His touch is both electrifying and terrifying. It’s such an intimate gesture from a total stranger, yet despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, it feels good. My skin immediately prickles with goose bumps—the combination of cold, lust, and a tinge of fear is an unexpected thrill. The silence on the other end of the phone is deafening. It seems that Gloria is speechless, which has to be a first. She recovers herself quickly. “Yes, that’s my niece, London.” She sounds super nervous. I can’t imagine what she must be thinking. “I’m not sure what’s going on there, but I can assure you that my company—” She’s no longer on the line. He hung up on her midsentence. He leans toward me, so close that I can smell his faintly minty breath. I’m increasingly aware of each breath he takes. Having him stand this close is too intimate by far, yet I don’t back away. Like him, I’m breathing heavily. My cell immediately starts ringing in my bag. It’s Gloria, of course. I really want to answer, as I know she’ll be worried, but the withering look that Green Eyes shoots me tells me not to move a muscle. I let it ring out. Right
now, I don’t know what to be more wary of, the wrath of my aunt, or the angry Adonis in front of me. He closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and moves it slowly from side to side, cracking the joints in his neck. It’s hot as hell. He’s hot as hell. I try to shake the unwelcome and highly inappropriate thought from my mind and focus on the more important matters at hand—like selfpreservation. After a few moments of silence, his eyes suddenly flash open, and he catches me ogling him. Again. I’ve reached humiliation level penthouse suite. I always thought of the whole “ground opening up and swallowing you” thing as just a phrase that people used for dramatic effect, but now I know different. If a black hole or a vortex to a parallel dimension appeared in front of me right now, I’d gladly jump in feetfirst. “I’m calling bullshit on your little tale. Clearly the cleaner part checks out, but that doesn’t even remotely begin to explain why the fuck you were butt naked in my basement. I should call the police and teach you a lesson.” He’s still standing behind me, and his hot breath skims the back of my neck as he barks into my ear. There go those goose bumps again. “Maybe you should.”
“Excuse me?” he snaps, his patience clearly wearing thin. “I said maybe you should call the police.” I’d welcome a visit from them at this point. I’m sure it couldn’t make the situation any worse. “We’ve already been over this several times.” I’m trying not to sound as irritated as I feel, and failing miserably. “And you expect me to believe that you left a trail of clothes including your bra and panties leading to the shower, but you had no idea I’d walk in on you lathering up that hot little bod of yours?” God knows what part he thought the ladder and bug spray played in this whole debacle. I mean, I’m no seduction expert, but I can’t imagine there are many people who consider an abandoned A-frame and a can of toxic chemicals a turn on. Although there are weirder kinks out there, so who knows? “Umm… yeah, basically. What happened with the spiders was terrifying, and you finding me in the shower afterward was the single most embarrassing experience of my life. You can’t seriously think I planned it, can you?” Can he?
He throws his head back and starts laughing. It’s a low, deep, velvety sound, and sexy as all hell. It’s not the reaction I was expecting from him, and I don’t know whether to be relieved or petrified, or a little of both. “Ten out of ten for taking stalking to a whole other level. Level: Batshit Crazy. What did you think I was going to do, see you there, sweep you up, and ride off into the sunset on my white charger with you?” That’s it! I see red and totally lose my cool. Maybe not my smartest move, given my predicament, but on the other hand, we’re just going around in circles, and something’s gotta give. I take a step back so that I can look him directly in the eyes, squaring my shoulders and trying to look more defiant than I feel. Oh, but those eyes are glorious! Deep emerald pools blazing angrily at me. “Look, I apologize if my ‘story’ doesn’t meet your approval, but maybe that’s because it’s not a story. I know I shouldn’t have used your shower, and I’ve already apologized for that. It was a moment of fear-induced madness, but I realize that it was the wrong thing to do. I’m genuinely sorry, and not just because I got caught. But to be clear, I’m not a stalker or a fan. How can I be stalking you when I don’t even know who you are?” I pretty much yell the last sentence. Shit. I’m so fired. Or dead. Or both.
He steps back in surprise, eyeing me skeptically. “You really had no idea who lives here?” he enunciates slowly. FFS, he’s killing me here! How many more times can I tell him the same fucking thing? “Nope.” “And even when you saw me, you didn’t recognize me?” Who the fuck does he think he is, God? “No, I didn’t. I still don’t.” “Arlo Jones. The Heartless Few. Sound familiar?” He’s eyeing me carefully, assessing my reaction. He said his name when he was speaking to Gloria, but it didn’t really register with me. I think about it now. “Kind of… yeah? Umm… yeah okay, for sure.” He laughs again, but this time, it’s a sharp and stilted sound, heavily laced with sarcasm. “The lead singer of one of the most successful bands on the planet and you’ve kind of, maybe heard of me. Is this some kind of joke?” He’s looking daggers at me now. The name is familiar, but it’s definitely not one that would be on the tip of my tongue if someone asked me to name three bands, for example.
“No, it’s not, and I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but I’d really like to leave now. I have another job to go to.” As I say the words, it dawns on me that I must be pretty late already. I’m not sure of the exact time, but I’m pretty sure I’d normally be on my way by now. Shit. Not only is Gloria going to be pissed with me, but Murray is too. Just when I think things can’t get any worse, they do. I wish I could just start the day over. I begin moving away from him slowly. I’m edging nearer to my bag, and while he mulls over this last exchange, I surreptitiously pick it up. Obviously my movements are not as subtle as I think, because he closes the newly created gap between us instantly, moving his tall, lithe body as gracefully as a panther. In a few neat strides, he’s close again. Too close. He stares down at me, his expressive eyes searching mine, and at the same time revealing what he’s thinking. I take another step back, and as I do, he catches my wrist in his large, calloused fingers. Shit. Before I can stop him, he takes hold of my chin, tilting my head before placing his full and shapely lips onto mine. What the…? Surprisingly, it’s a tender, featherlight kiss, and is quite possibly the hottest thing I have ever experienced. How can a man who is arrogance personified
be so sensual? More to the point, how can such a gentle touch turn me on so much? Our lips barely brush and yet I feel like he’s got a direct line to the sweet spot between my legs. I’m instantly wet. It’s as though I’ve been washed over by molten lava that has now settled in a bubbling pool at the base of my stomach. It takes a few moments for my brain to assimilate what’s going on, and when it does, it decides I’m not entirely opposed to the idea of making out with this guy. In fact, I’m pretty much all for it. It turns out he’s an amazing kisser. He reaches down and pulls me closer to him, tightening his grip on my wrist, and increasing the pressure against my lips. Or is it me doing that? I can’t tell, but I can tell I’m loving it. His tongue pushes through the seam of my lips, exploring every inch of my mouth. With every stroke and every passing moment, I’m becoming increasingly turned on. This is like nothing I’ve ever experienced—my physical reaction to him is so intense. To feel this attracted to him is ridiculous. I don’t know him, and what I do know of him, I don’t like very much. Correction—my brain may not want to like him, but my body is of an entirely different opinion. It can’t seem to get enough.
Holy freaking fuck. As his naked torso presses against my wet T-shirt, a bolt of energy surges through me, literally jerking me closer to him. The thin, drenched material between us is nothing more than a formality, so when his chest brushes against mine it’s like he’s gently stroking my nipples—they stand to attention immediately. He loops one hand around my waist and the other around the back of my neck, pulling me closer so that we’re pressed tight against each other from shoulder to waist. Now that my wrist is free, I stretch my arms, and move both hands up behind his neck, pulling downward in an attempt to meld his lips even more tightly to mine. The action causes the towel-cape around my shoulders to slip to the floor. I also let my bag slide down my body to fall at my bare feet with a soft thud, no longer in such a hurry to leave. I rise on tiptoe, leaning into Arlo Jones, and allowing him to kiss me harder. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m outraged that I’m doing this, but at the same time, I can’t bring myself to stop. As my tongue explores his mouth, I revel in the feel of him, wanting to make the moment last. Nobody has ever felt as good to me as he does right now. Not even Danny.
So this is what fireworks between two people feel like. It’s a first for me, and I hate myself for it. Somewhere in the back of my mind there’s a voice telling me this is wrong, that I shouldn’t be doing it, that I’m as good as dancing on Danny’s grave. Sadly, right now the voice of my desire is shouting louder, traitorous bitch that she is. I feel Arlo’s abs ripple and tense against mine, causing my stomach to flip, and stealing my breath from my lungs. Then our bodies meet below the waist, and I can tell he’s as turned on as I am—for sure that’s not a banana in his pocket. Oh. My. God. This is good. Unspeakably, sinfully, deliciously good. Every atom of my body is screaming out, desperate to deepen the physical connection —the more of me touching him, the better. I feel like I could come at any moment, and we’re only kissing. And grinding—there’s a whole lot of grinding going on. I can’t seem to get enough of him. My arms go to his waist, pulling him even closer. He pulls away from my mouth a little, and before I can protest, rests his forehead against mine. My eyes flutter open automatically, and as I pull back slightly, I see that his remain closed. I watch as a pained expression—almost a wince—passes across his face. I can tell he’s going to say
that we need to stop. That what we’re doing is stupid and out of control. Wrong. He’d be right, too. This is nonsense—we’re not teenagers, and yet we’re behaving like schoolkids making out under the bleachers. Maybe he’s married, or has a girlfriend who is due home any moment. That would be the perfect end to this epic fail of a day. He’s staring at me now. The heat behind the look is so intense that I shift from foot to foot, suddenly uncomfortable under the weight of it. The sparkling jewels of his eyes are molten with lust, yes, but there’s something else too that I can’t quite put my finger on. Something in his gaze is tender. Longing almost. Then it happens. Exactly what “it” is I can’t quite say, but what I do know is that it feels significant. It’s as though there’s a shift in the air, and I get the sense that somehow, this is one of those moments you look back on and realize that they were the beginning of something. The point of no return. Although we’ve just devoured each other with our lips, the intimacy we’re now sharing seems… more, somehow. It’s unnerving, being this close to him, neither of us speaking, just feeling. Regret floods over me. Danny. I look away, desperate to break the heavy vibe.
How does he do that to me? He leans forward so that his lips brush gently against my ear, and I can feel his warm breath on my neck. The goose bumps seem to be a permanent feature now. I brace myself, knowing he’s going to tell me that he’s made a mistake, and it’s time for me to leave. “Turn around and bend over the counter,” he urges hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper. I hesitate, not really taking in what he’s saying, still dazed from the intimacy of our interaction. He continues, not waiting for a response. “I’m going to fuck you from behind.” Wait, what? Rewind! Let’s back the hell up a minute. What did he just say? As the words sink in, it’s as though someone has thrown a bucket of ice water on my libido. It’s gone from smoking hot to stone cold in less than a nanosecond. This guy’s a piece of work. When they were handing out charm, he must have been too busy blowing smoke up his own ass to take his fair share. I can’t believe I was sucker punched by his ridiculous good looks—and whatever that zing between us was—and almost did something that I would have most likely regretted. In fact, I already regret it.
It’s so not like me to think with my libido like that, and now I know why. This guy might look like a god among men, but he’s obviously a total knuckle dragger. These thoughts run through my mind in the split second after he’s spoken, and almost without me knowing it was going to happen, my arm shoots out and I slap him across the face. Hard. I’m in shock at what I’ve just done. It was a reflex, I guess—just like tearing off my clothes and running through the house naked. I have literally never slapped anyone like that before, and I doubt I will again. It hurt. But apart from a slight wince on impact, Arlo doesn’t seem to have registered that anything has happened. He must have felt it though, if my aching palm is anything to go by. “Yeah, no. That’s so not gonna happen,” I say, my voice firm as I shove him as forcefully as I can. I’m met with a wall of solid muscle, and he doesn’t move an inch. Not in the direction I want him to, anyway. Instead, he steps forward, tightening his grip around me and drawing me toward him again. I’m still shoving at his chest, trying to wriggle out of his grasp, but to no avail. He’s built like a brick shit house, and he’s not going anywhere unless he wants to.
“Oh come on, you can drop the little-girl-lost act with me. We both know you came here to get a piece of me. You don’t have to pretend otherwise. I’m not put off by a woman who knows what she wants; in fact, I find it sexy as hell.” Oh God. He’s seriously deluded. After the lengths I went to explaining the situation, and just slapping him in the face, he still thinks I’m some kind of stalker fan who was holed up in his designer shower to get my hands on his junk. I don’t suppose I’ve helped matters by jumping on him like a woman just escaped from a nunnery, but still. “I’ve already explained this. It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t stalking you, or whatever you think—” He steals the rest of my sentence with a kiss, but it feels completely different to the first one. Gone is the tender, featherlight touch. Now he presses his beautiful, shapely lips to mine with much more force. His tongue seeks out mine urgently again, but this time, I don’t want him to find it. A few moments ago I was enjoying going with the flow, but the bubble burst with his vulgar words, and reality kicked in. Hard. I just want to get out of here, but as I try to push him away again, he leans in more forcefully, moving with me.
“Don’t mind me, just grabbing a coffee,” a voice booms from the other side of the room. We immediately turn toward the kitchen doorway. A mirror image of Arlo Jones’s face stares back at me. I’m both confused and stunned by the fact that there are now two of these perfect specimens of manliness before me. No prizes for guessing that this new one is either Arlo Jones’s clone, or his identical twin. He has fewer tatts and closecropped hair vs. Arlo’s thick shaggy mop of thick hair, but clearly identical otherwise. The look on his face says he’s not happy about the scene unfolding in front of him. I wonder how much he saw. The only thing worse than dealing with one angry Adonis right now is the prospect of two of them, even if one of them does appear to be on my side—the glare he has fixed on his brother can only mean trouble. Personally, I want nothing to do with either of them. I use the distraction caused by Arlo number two to my advantage, grab my bag and shoes, and get the fuck out of there. I hear a commotion behind me as I dart toward the door, but I don’t have time to stop to take in the scene unfolding. As I open the front door and race down the expansive drive, I’ve never been more relieved to hit the streets of Manhattan. I keep up my speed for a couple of
blocks despite my bare feet, even though I’m pretty sure that neither man has followed. Want to read more? www.hottreepublishing.com/catching-london