The Suite Secret (London Hearts #2)

Chapter One Gemma

Chapter One

Gemma

I detest the Tube at peak hour.

“Are you all right?” I say, turning to glare at the person jabbing their elbow into my ribs.

“Sorry,” mutters an older man beside me, busy scrolling through his phone.

We’re crammed into the train carriage like sardines, and unfortunately, it smells just as bad—like a blend of yogurt left out too long and body odor.

The joys of living in a city with a population of nine million.

With a huff, I turn back to the window, my reflection mirrored back at me thanks to the pitch-black tunnel.

I push my glasses farther up my nose, watching as the occasional light flashes by.

In the glass, I spot a tall man behind me, his back turned with his phone pressed to his ear, barking orders at whoever’s on the other end.

His voice is delicious—smooth and rich, like aged whisky, and I lower the volume of my music to eavesdrop.

“What? No, I can’t hear you properly. You’re cutting in and out… I’m on the bloody underground!” the man says. He pauses, adjusting his stance. “I know the meeting’s at nine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” And with that, he hangs up, muttering a quiet, “Jesus, I should have taken the car.”

Snob.

Returning to my little bubble, I plug in my AirPods and tap my foot to the beat of the music.

Upon a sudden lurch of the carriage, the tall man crashes into me.

“Ouch!” I cry. Pain explodes through my back as the train suddenly slows down and passengers sway unsteadily.

I yank out my headphones, shove them into my trench-coat pockets, and rub the sore spot on my back.

I whirl around to deliver a scolding. “Oh, for God’s sake.

Just hold on to the strap. It’s not that bloody—”

The man turns and I halt mid-sentence, not by choice, but because words escape me.

“I tried to grab the strap, but the crowd pushed me before I could,” he says. “Are you hurt?”

For the love of all things holy.

He’s at least six foot two, clad in a perfectly tailored dark gray suit. The fabric is undoubtedly expensive—vicuna or cashmere—but it clings snugly to his bulging biceps and thighs.

It’s obvious the bloke works out.

I’m captivated by his pale blue eyes—cool and clear, like aquamarine.

His hair is dark brown, flecked with silver at his temples.

It has just the right amount of product to give that I woke up like this look.

His fair skin is flawless, even under the shitty carriage lights.

He has a smattering of freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks, while faint stubble peppers his jawline, which is so sharp it could cut glass.

Something about him is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.

Have I seen him in passing? Surely, I would have remembered him had we met. You don’t forget a face like that.

There’s a casual confidence in his stance. While the rest of us are packed together, he somehow commands his own space. My brain turns to porridge because this stranger is radiating a serious case of Big Dick Energy.

Which just so happens to be my favorite kind of energy.

I don’t get my kicks from running or reformer Pilates.

To be honest, I’d rather sit on a pineapple than exercise.

However, sex—that’s a form of physical exertion I’m more than willing to engage in, and it definitely keeps my energy levels up.

And I’ve become rather good at it, if I do say so myself.

Honestly, I deserve a bloody medal. Considering I don’t work out, you’d swear I was an Olympic gymnast.

My favorite kind of sex, however, is the kind where I can sit back and enjoy myself. I like being in control—of course, I do—but after years of taking charge in the bedroom, sometimes I just want a well-equipped man to take charge of me. And this man looks like he’s capable of doing precisely that.

Powerful men in powerful suits with powerful penises make me very happy, and unfortunately, appear to be few and far between.

Trust me—I’ve done extensive research—this man intrigues me.

He clears his throat, pulling me from my daze.

“Huh?” I ask, still rubbing my back.

He huffs a low laugh. “I asked, are you hurt?”

His accent is Londoner, but somewhat muted, softer.

Where have I seen him?

I mentally flip through places I could’ve met him, scanning faces and voices—anything that might spark recognition. Without thinking, I brush my hair back from my shoulders and arch my back slightly—just enough to draw attention where I want it. The girls have never let me down.

His gaze follows the movement, trailing from my face and lingering where my body nearly brushes his chest. Even in the winter chill, I chose my outfit carefully.

The neckline of my silk shirt dips beneath my open trench coat, just low enough to show my silver infinity necklace against bare skin.

My skirt walks that perfect line between professional and sexy—a modest length but fitted enough to hint at the curves beneath.

The silence stretches and I realize I’ve been staring at him, completely lost in thought.

He tilts his head, studying me with an amused expression. “Right,” he says, his tone shifting to something I don’t quite like. “Perhaps I’m not being clear enough.”

He bends at the knees, bringing himself down to my eye level, as if I’m a confused child.

“I asked”—he pauses, his words dripping with condescension—“are you hurt?”

And just like that, the urge to knee him in the balls is overwhelming.

Jesus. Does he think I’m an idiot?

A trail of fire burns through my chest.

“No,” I say, my tone clipped.

“See?” He straightens to full height, an infuriating hint of humor dancing in his eyes. “Wasn’t that hard, was it?” The wink he gives me makes my eye twitch.

I scoff. “Excuse me?”

“You were just a bit slow on the uptake.”

He’s so patronizing, I want to kick him.

I recoil at his audacity and stumble straight back into the arms of whatever unfortunate soul is contributing to that god-awful body odor wafting through the carriage. Brilliant.

“I beg your pardon?” I demand, my voice rising.

His smirk widens. “You seemed a little… overwhelmed. I wasn’t sure if it was because you were hurt, couldn’t quite follow along, or maybe”—his eyes are pure mischief—“you were struck by my devastating good looks.”

Arrogant prick. If his head were any further up his arse, he could lick his nostrils clean.

“Did you just suggest I’m stupid?” My voice drops, more threatening than friendly. I ignore the remark about his good looks—because he’s absolutely right, the smug turd, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

He chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “I said you were slow to respond, not that you are slow. There’s a difference.”

His gaze drops to my chest before snapping back up to meet my glare.

“Did you just look at my breasts?”

“Well…” He shrugs. “To be fair, you are shoving them in my direction.”

My mouth drops. The nerve of this man.

“I most certainly am not shoving my breasts into you.”

I absolutely am. Anyone with a set of eyes in their head can see exactly what I’m doing, but I’m not about to admit it. He knows I’m full of shite, but I won’t waver.

He raises a hand in mock surrender with an insufferable grin. “You’re right. My apologies. I’d step back to give you proper space, but there’s a pram lodged up my backside.”

I scrunch my brow and crane my neck to peek behind him, only to be assaulted by the sight—and smell—of someone’s rancid armpit. Sure enough, there’s a pram wedged between his arse and another passenger.

“Good,” I mutter, fishing my AirPods from my pocket and slipping them into my ears.

Turning back to the window, I watch his reflection, catching his soft scoff and the slight shake of his head as he turns away from me.

Instead of music, I resume my latest audiobook, letting the narrator’s soothing voice drown out the sounds of sneezing, coughing, and—my personal favorite—crying infants.

Two stops later, we finally crawl into Leicester Square station. As I get ready to step off, I notice my charming new acquaintance is also disembarking. I find myself trailing behind him as he weaves through the crowd, heading for the escalator.

Women stare as he passes—of course they bloody do. But my attention is on the way his trousers hug his firm, spectacular arse.

Glorious. He might be totally up himself, but credit where it’s due.

By the time I reach street level, he’s disappeared into the sea of Monday morning commuters.

Another manic Monday begins.