No Saint (My Kind of Hero #2)

Prologue Mila

Prologue

Mila

Four Months Before

“ Don’t hold out for the hotties over six feet tall. Avoid those tall kings blessed in the underwear department. Shorter men lack attitude, show gratitude, and they’ve learned what their tongue is for. ” Ronny’s dating advice floats into my head.

My next-door neighbor has the strangest life philosophies.

Oh, Ronny, you’ve got it all wrong, I think as the stranger’s lips slide down my neck, drawing a tiny moan from me. With a shorter man, I would’ve missed the delicious stretch of my body as I reach for his shoulders. How his large hands make me feel so dainty as they fold around my hips. You can keep your average-size kings with their average-size peens because if I’m going to rebound, I want this man right here.

But this is ... not me. Not usual-programming Mila.

This version of Mila is living an existence that’s spinning out of control. It’s why I was hiding out in the coat closet with just a bottle of champagne for company until a little while ago. A paper bag might’ve been better for my spiraling anxiety, but the vintage bottle of Bollinger was the next best thing.

But they do say bad decisions make for good stories, so maybe I shouldn’t be too angry with myself for hurling the bottle at the door. As my hideout was discovered and the door crept open, I muttered some excuse and crouched to pick up the bottle. I didn’t feel like apologizing—I wanted to curse and yell in the handsome stranger’s face. Tall men. Short men. Round men. Muscled men. Cheating men. All of them.

But as our fingers reached for the champagne bottle at the same time, our eyes connected. The curiosity and kindness shining in his made me pause. And I wasn’t alarmed when he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. More like intrigued. We exchanged a few words in the dim light, and he made me laugh. I’m not entirely sure how that led to us making out like a couple of horny teenagers during a game of spin the bottle.

Only, I’ve never been kissed like this before, as a teenager or not. Hot breath and hotter lips, my eyes fluttering closed under the weight of a pleasured groan. Need thrumming under my skin and heat swirling and pooling between my hips.

No, I’ve never felt like this. Not even with ...

“ It’s not you, Mila. You’ve done nothing wrong. ” I frown at the sudden echo of Adam’s voice. Penis!

The stranger stills, his lips slowly retracting from my throat.

“You or me, beautiful?” His finger hooks under my chin, angling my gaze to his.

That voice, so deep and sort of dreamy. And that accent ...

This isn’t your average-size king. He’s more like a California king, though I think he said he was from New England. But he’s movie-star perfect. Tall, broad shouldered, and sort of tawny. Like a lion. Come to think of it, that’s a much better description for him. I’m pretty sure a California king is a mattress size.

“I’m sorry.” I give my head a tiny shake, realizing he’s watching me. Intently. Like he’s absorbing everything. “What did you just say?”

“You said penis . Are we talking about yours or mine?” In the low light, the corner of his mouth curls, flashing an honest-to-goodness dimple. “I’m not a fan of surprises. Especially that kind.”

“Oh.” I roll my lips inward, trying not to giggle. I might be tipsy. Or maybe I fell and hit my head and all this is just some kind of sexy imagining. “That wouldn’t be me,” I reply. “I don’t have a penis, I mean.”

I used to be engaged to one. But not anymore.

“I’m glad.” He draws closer before he stills, his eyes lingering on my lips. “Just so you know, I’m at the other end of the scale.”

“You have a penis?”

“Right now, I have a lot of penis.”

“As in multiples or . . .”

His laughter sounds like the punch line to a dirty joke.

“Th-that’s actually a thing,” I begin, all awkward and stuttery. “I saw it on TV. Not actually saw it . I wasn’t surfing porn or anything. It was an interview.”

He presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth, and I feel the smile in it. “You don’t say.”

“It was on m-morning TV.” My hand slips from his shoulder, drawn by the silky lapel of a midnight-colored dinner jacket that fits his broad frame like it was made for him.

“God, your mouth is so pretty.”

“Thank you.” I suck in a tight gasp as his thumb strokes my bottom lip.

“Can I kiss you again?”

But he’s not really asking for permission as his lips chart my jawline and his touch brushes down my throat. Pop goes the top button of my sensible work shirt.

“Anyone might walk in.” But I’m not really denying him as my grip tightens. Beyond the closed door, London’s elite quaff champagne and dance drunkenly to the band as it crucifies another Oasis cover. Another wedding reception spilling into the late hours.

“Only if you have another bottle to throw” comes his husky reply.

“I’m all out.”

“Do something for me?”

“Depends,” I whisper as he loosens another button. His lips press the swell of my breast.

“Say penis for me again.”

My lips fight a smile as I angle my gaze his way. “Why?”

“Science” comes the hot sibilant burst.

I give my head a tiny shake—amused acceptance or maybe delight. But as I purse my lips in preparation, his mouth—petal soft—brushes mine. I make a noise, a tiny sound of pleasure, almost anticipating the next sultry slide. My insides shimmer as his hand grazes my hip, pinning me against the wall, the scent of his soap and expensive cologne invading my senses.

“Tastes like I thought it would,” his low voice rumbles.

“Penis on my lips?” How ridiculous.

“If you’re offering.”

“You wish.”

“Gorgeous, and a mind reader too.”

His words make me feel all tingly. I forgot there was such a thing as flattery.

“What’s your name, beautiful?”

“Mila. Yours?”

“Fin.” He takes my hand in his, bringing my palm to his lips. His eyes fire bright as he presses it to his chest.

An invitation, I think, as I trail my fingers down, down, and over his belt. My insides turning molten at his raw, needy sound.

“You weren’t lying,” I whisper, gripping him. He’s so thick under the fine fabric.

“No, I was not.” His reply is so sweetly agonized. “Beautiful Mila, champagne thrower, closet dweller. Not all men are liars.”

“Jury is still out on that one.”

“I have a truth for you.” His finger toys with the hem of my skirt, his eyes seeking permission.

“What’s that?” My gaze drops as he does, my heart beating frantically with anticipation.

“I can’t wait any longer to get my mouth on you.”