Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Rhett
First stop, the London Dungeon. Meet you at the entrance at ten am.
I arrive at the building at five to ten.
I stand outside, leaning up against the wall, one foot off the ground, and scan the surrounding area.
The street is crowded, full of a mixture of tourists and the usual hum of London life.
I check my watch for the third time in as many minutes.
Punctuality is a habit I cling to like oxygen, but I’ll wait for Pippa if I have to.
I need not have worried.
I spot her immediately. No one else has that head-turning, bombshell, sex kitten energy that defines her.
She is wearing dark skinny jeans that fit her perfectly, a soft-blue shirt that she has tucked at the waist, and the nude heels from the other night.
She walks with effortless elegance. The soft red waves of her bouncing with every step, and as she gets closer, I can see her eyes, bright and alert, as she scans the surroundings looking for me.
I have to admit. She looks fucking stunning.
And yet, there is not a single trace of pretension, fake posing, or posturing.
She’s just Pippa, comfortable in her own skin, all energy and light.
And she has that very slight bounce of excitement in her step that makes my pulse tick up without warning.
Whatever today brings, I feel like it’s going to be good.
“Rhett!” She waves and calls when she spots me. Her smile is wide, a little mischievous. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Pippa,” I greet, pushing myself off the wall. “You’re punctual. I like that.”
She shrugs adorably. “I think I’m more Occasional Chaos than Strict Punctuality. In future, you should add an extra 15 minutes to whatever time we decide on meeting.”
I nod solemnly. “Got it.”
She clasps her hands and looks up at me. “Well then, should we hug?”
I open my arms, and she quickly presses herself against me.
It was meant to feel friendly, but it sets a subtle tension in the air.
She’s warm against my chest, and smells faintly of perfume, soft with floral notes.
My chest tightens ever so slightly, and the urge to crush her mouth with mine is overwhelming, but I remind myself that she’ll have to be won over.
I’ll have to show her that her Mr. Dependability isn’t worth her time or effort.
“Let’s go,” she says, pulling away.
The gaunt facade of the London Dungeons looms ahead. It holds one thousand years of the city’s gruesome history. The entrance is decked out with gothic arches and flickering torches, a perfect tease for the dark, macabre entertainment inside. She nudges me forward, her eyes sparkling.
“This is going to be terrible,” she says, laughing softly. “It’s immersive so I’m going to scream at everything, but it’s ok, because so are you.”
“I don’t think I’ll scream, but if you do, I will be right here.” I gesture vaguely at my chest and grin appealingly. “You know, to save you.”
Her eyes flick up at me, just for a moment, and her lips twitch. “You sure you can handle that responsibility?”
“Do you doubt it?”
She turns toward the entrance and gestures dramatically at the facade. “Well, in that case, lead the way, Sir Rhettimus.”
I smile inwardly at her new name for me: Sir Rhettimus, keeper of the scared, graceful lady. Not a bad title, though if she knew my real intentions…
We go to the ticket booth, and Pippa insists on paying for the tickets. I try to tell her it isn’t necessary, but she gives me a look that says argue at your peril. I give in gracefully, making a mental note to make sure to beat her to every other booth for the rest of the day.
As we step inside the actual dungeons, the air changes.
It’s cooler, kind of damp, and it smells faintly of wood, dust, and something I can only describe as theatrically medieval.
A guide in full garb - a brown leather coat, a wide-brimmed hat, the works – appears seemingly out of nowhere and ushers us forward with a dark grin.
“Welcome to the London Dungeon,” he intones. “Here, you will face the darkest, most horrifying moments of the city’s history. Only the brave will survive.”
Pippa shivers dramatically. “Oh no,” she says, her voice mock panicked. “That’s me screwed. I’m not brave.”
I glance at her, taking in the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers grip the handbag that is slung over her right shoulder.
There is a genuine human reaction here. She is putting on a brave face when she’s actually afraid of accidentally making a fool of herself again.
My chest warms at the subtle vulnerability.
“I’m right here,” I whisper softly, just for her. “Nothing’s going to hurt you.”
She throws me a sidelong glance, amusement flashing in her eyes. “Except for your corny lines, I suppose.”
She digs me with her elbow and I dig her back, and then our small group follows the guide.
The first room is a reconstruction of a medieval torture chamber.
Chains hang from the walls, skeletons positioned as though in mid scream, flickering candlelight casting shadows that creep and twist. The guide steps forward with a candle, narrating the macabre history of public executions, grisly punishments, and the notorious Jack the Ripper.
Pippa leans slightly into me, her shoulder brushing mine. “Why do they make this stuff so realistic?” she whispers.
I have to suppress a laugh. Realistic? It is all so over the top, it’s hilarious.
A mechanical skeleton suddenly swings out from a corner with the sound of rattling chains and she screams sharply and stumbles backward.
I catch her quite naturally, my arms going around her.
For a heartbeat, she’s pressed into me, her back against my chest, and her marvelous hair brushing my arm.
My pulse starts to hammer in my ears. The world seems to narrow down until it’s just Pippa’s body against mine.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur gallantly. But gallantry is the last thing I am feeling. She’s so close to me I can smell the strawberry scent of her shampoo, and it’s driving me wild. I can feel my cock straining to life and the last thing I need is a hard-on poking into her ass right now.
“I … I’m fine,” she stammers, pushing away from me as I release her.
She’s still close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her as the rest of the room comes back into focus. A few of the group are smiling in our direction, the rest are listening to the guide explain how thumb screws work.
“Stupid damned skeleton,” she mutters, turning around to face me. Her cheeks are pink, her breath quick, and something about the way she smiles sheepishly makes me want to grin like an idiot.
“Uh-huh,” I tease, a soft laugh leaving my lips. “He was really scary. Any lingering trauma?”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a playful curve to her lips. “No lingering trauma. Just some slight embarrassment at how loud I screamed.”
We move through the next few rooms. The plague doctor’s quarters reeking faintly of herbs and age.
A room dedicated to the Great Fire of London, smoke and flames flickering as the guide recounts the devastation.
More torture devices and stocks, each accompanied by booming sound effects and strategically timed screams from hidden animatronics.
Pippa shrieks more than once as actors jump out of darkened nooks or launch into movement after fooling us into believing they are a prop. I must admit, the atmosphere and the actors really are brilliant.
At one point, we enter a chamber replicating a plague-infested street. It is dimly lit with mist curling along the floor. Rats scuttle in the projections, and eerie sound effects fill the room. Pippa clutches my arm involuntarily as a pained scream rings out through hidden speakers.
“You’re ridiculously brave,” she mutters, unclasping her death-grip awkwardly.
“Not brave,” I correct, hiding my laughter. “Careful. Alert. Fully prepared to protect the damsel in distress next to me.”
“Damsel? Really?” she snorts.
“Of course. You must know the old script. It’s a classic. Danger befalls the damsel. Damsel faints or screams in panic. Enter Sir Rhettimus. He saves the fair maiden and carries her away to his castle on the hill, where they live happily ever after.”
Her laugh is soft, tinged with breathless excitement, and I feel my insides tighten and start to crave the feel of her soft skin. Whoa! Rhett. Steady on …
We reach a room set up like the Tower of London with dim stone walls, chains, flickering torches, and a realistic-looking skeleton dangling from the ceiling. The guide’s narration gets theatrical as he describes executions, betrayals, and the ghost sightings ever since.
Pippa shivers again, half from the chill, half from anticipation. That is the perfect excuse. I move closer.
She glances at me, one eyebrow raised. “I swear, you are enjoying this way too much,” she accuses, though her lips twitch in amusement.
“Isn’t that the idea?” I whisper. “To appreciate the full immersive experience with an excellent companion.”
Her cheeks color again, but I can see she is pleased with the compliment. She nudges me gently with her shoulder. “You’re full of it, aren’t you?”
I smile.
We move on into the last room, which is a recreated courtroom where actors in period costumes are yelling accusations of witchcraft and treason, sentencing their hapless victims to the stocks, the guillotine, and the gallows.
Fog creeps along the floor, and projections make the walls seem like they are closing in.
A mechanical figure lunges suddenly, and Pippa yelps, stumbling forward.
My hand shoots out instinctively, and for the briefest second, she’s in my arms again.
She freezes for a second, and I can hear her heart beating quickly.
Then she recovers, and laughing nervously, pushes slightly against me to regain her balance.
“I think I’m going to have nightmares after this,” she says, though the grin on her face says otherwise.
“Have you really lived in London all of your life and never been here before?”
“I wanted to come here as a child, but my parents refused to bring me. I know why now,” she says.
“You’re going to be fine,” I reassure her. “You know it’s not real, and you’ve got me to protect you.”
“A real knight in shining armor, protecting me from things that aren’t real,” she says with a playful grin.
“I consider it my most important duty,” I reply, and we both laugh softly.
We watch on, as a member of our tour group is tried for witchcraft and found guilty before she can so much as open her mouth. The tour guide tells us that our time is over, and we should be grateful that we have survived the nightmare tour.
We head towards the exit, and his voice follows us, reminding us not to be too cocky because anything could happen before we reach the safety of the exit.
A horror-movie laugh rings out, and the sound of footsteps approaching behind us follows it.
Pippa isn’t the only one to scream at this and the group rushes forward.
I glance back. Only the tour guide is there, watching and laughing quietly.
As we exit into the brighter lobby, Pippa looks around, her hair slightly mussed, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“We survived,” she declares. “And you didn’t even scream too much.”
“I think you did enough of that for both of us,” I reply.
She laughs easily. “The real world feels impossibly mundane now compared to the close calls we’ve just survived.”
We cross the lobby, ignoring the gift shop by silent agreement, and for a moment, I allow myself to enjoy the warmth flowing between us. It’s a feeling of heat, laughter, and the subtle pull between us that neither of us can deny.
Yes, I will have her. And soon.