Chapter 8
Cole
Rory's trying not to smile, and failing spectacularly.
“Happy?” I ask with a raised eyebrow as I shove my phone back in my coat pocket.
“Very.” She loops her arm through mine like it's the most natural thing in the world. “Let's go.”
The simple gesture sends a jolt through me that I'm not quite prepared for. The casual intimacy of it, the easy way she touches me like we're something more than what we are. When was the last time I had any physical contact that wasn't Hollie climbing on me or a handshake in a boardroom?
When was the last time I wanted someone's touch this badly?
This morning, my traitorous mind supplies. When you woke up with her sprawled across your chest, her hair tickling your jaw, and you couldn't bring yourself to move for twenty minutes because she felt too perfect there.
I push the thought away as we head toward the Tube station.
Snow's starting to fall more heavily now, dusting her red coat and catching in her eyelashes.
She's still eating her sandwich, taking enthusiastic bites between conversation, completely unbothered by the cold or the crowds or the fact that she's just convinced her grumpy one-night stand to abandon his entire afternoon.
“Do you always eat lunch alone?” she asks around a mouthful of cheddar and pickle.
“Yes.”
“Every day?”
“Yes.”
“That must get lonely,” she says, though her tone is gentle rather than judgmental.
“It's efficient,” I reply with a half shrug, trying to ignore how good it feels to have her arm linked through mine.
“You keep saying that word, but I don't think you know what it means.”
Despite myself, I almost smile. “It means not wasting time.”
“Or maybe you just like knowing what to expect,” she says, a slight smile playing on her lips—those same lips that were on mine last night, that left a trail of kisses down my chest, that wrapped around my—
Christ, Adams. Cop the fuck on.
“There's nothing wrong with that, you know. Some people need structure to feel safe.”
That's...uncomfortably accurate. And kinder than I deserve, considering I've just spent the last five minutes defending my pathological need for routine. Considering I left her alone this morning rather than face the uncertainty of what could come next.
“I have a four-year-old,” I find myself saying, needing her to understand even though I'm not precisely sure why it matters. “Structure keeps things manageable.”
“Of course it does.” She squeezes my arm gently, and the simple gesture threatens to undo me. “But even the best dads need a break sometimes.”
The understanding in her voice does something strange to my chest, making it feel tight and warm and vulnerable. I don't respond, and she doesn't push. She simply continues walking beside me, her arm still linked with mine, comfortable in our shared silence.
And even so, or maybe because of that fact, my mind can’t help screaming about the dangers of continuing down this road. Of relishing the ease between us. Last night was supposed to be just sex. Yes, it was incredible, mind-blowing, life-altering sex, but this?
This is how you catch feelings, Adams.
We descend into the Tube station. It's packed—Friday lunch hour in central London. Bodies everywhere, the smell of wet coats and underground air, someone's takeaway curry mingling with the metallic scent of the tracks.
I hate the Tube during rush hour. The chaos, the unpredictability, the way people press too close and invade personal space without a second thought.
In my delirium, I got carried away and forgot to call my driver, Gerald. Looks like I’m about to pay for that oversight.
Yet somehow, with Rory's arm still linked with mine, it's...tolerable. Almost pleasant, even. Like she's a buffer between me and the rest of the world, turning chaos into something manageable.
We board the train, and she steadies herself against me as it lurches forward, though she doesn't move away after. The carriage is packed, forcing us closer together as more people squeeze on at each stop.
My hand finds her waist—ostensibly to steady her—but my fingers curl possessively against her hip, fitting into the curve exactly the way they did last night when I woke her up to pull her onto my lap so I could bury myself inside her and watch her come apart for me.
I feel her breath hitch at the touch, and I know she's remembering it too.
When I glance down, she’s looking up at me, those blue eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
The noise of the Tube fades to background static.
All I can focus on is the way her pupils dilate, the slight part of her lips, the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat—the same pulse point I traced with my tongue, the same spot that made her gasp and arch into me.
The train sways, pressing her closer, and neither of us makes any effort to create distance. My thumb traces slow circles against her hip through her coat, and I watch the way her breathing quickens, the way her cheeks flush.
I want to kiss her. Right here, in the middle of this crowded train. I want to find out if her lips taste the same in daylight as they did in darkness.
“You're staring,” she murmurs, but there's no accusation in it, just an observation. Curiosity. Maybe even an invitation.
“So are you,” I reply, my voice rougher than intended. Thick with a desire I'm not even attempting to hide.
Her lips curve into the smallest smile, pupils dilating until there’s barely any blue left. “Fair point.”
My thumb continues its unconscious pattern against her hip, and I'm rewarded with the slight flutter of her eyelashes before she leans almost imperceptibly closer.
This is insane. I'm standing on the Tube, having a silent conversation with a woman I slept with last night, and all I can think about is how badly I want to do it again.
How I want nothing as much as to take her back to my hotel room and spend the entire afternoon remapping every inch of her skin with my hands and mouth.
How I need to hear her scream my name again.
The air surrounding us feels electric, charged with possibility and memory and barely restrained desire.
But before I can act on impulse—before I can do something monumentally stupid like kiss her in the middle of the Northern Line—the automated voice announces Covent Garden station is the next stop.
The spell breaks, though not entirely. Her hand is still on my chest, her body still pressed close, and I'm in no hurry to change that.
“Fair warning,” she says as we pull into the station, her voice slightly breathless. “I'm going to want to look at everything.”
My chest rumbles with a deep, genuinely amused chuckle. “Everything?”
“Every stall. Every shop. Every ridiculous overpriced ornament.” She grins up at me, unrepentant. “It's my first proper London Christmas market.”
“Sounds like hell,” I mutter, but there's no heat behind it.
“It's Christmas spirit, Hotshot.”
The nickname hits differently in the daylight. It’s warmer. More intimate. A callback to when she first said it, her eyes bright with mojitos and possibility.
“It's consumerism, Sweetheart.”
I see the moment the endearment registers—the way her breath catches once more, how her pupils flare. She remembers when I whispered it against her skin, how I groaned it when she took me in her mouth, the way I gasped it when her pussy tightened around me.
This was a really bad idea.
She laughs, the sound bright and uninhibited, but I can hear her slight breathlessness. “You're such a grump. How do you even celebrate Christmas?”
“Quietly.” I glance around pointedly as we exit the train, grateful for the distraction from my X-rated thoughts. “Without crowds.”
“That's just tragic.” She tilts her head, studying me with those impossibly blue eyes, and I feel seen in a way that should be uncomfortable, but somehow isn't. “Though I'm starting to suspect you're not quite as grumpy as you come across.”
“Is that so?”
“Mmhmm.” She's watching me now with something knowing in her expression. “Actual grumps don't save strangers from cyclists. Or buy them sandwiches. Or cancel their entire afternoon to go to Christmas markets.”
“Maybe I'm just a very dedicated grump,” I counter, but my lips are twitching with the effort not to smile.
I glance down at her, taking in the way snowflakes have settled in her hair like a crown, the freckle on her left temple just visible beneath the edge of her knit hat, the way her eyes sparkle with barely contained laughter.
She's beautiful. More than that, she's magnetic, pulling me into her orbit without even trying.
And I'm in serious danger of forgetting why being near her is such a bad idea.
“Or maybe…” I murmur, my voice dropping lower, rougher. “Maybe you just bring out a different side of me.”
Her lips part slightly, making me want to trace my thumb across that pouty bottom lip. The same lip I bit last night. The same mouth that—
“A better side?” Her words are soft, and there’s a vulnerability in the question, like my answer matters more than it should.
“A reckless side,” I admit, my gaze intent on hers. “One that cancels meetings and takes impromptu trips to Christmas markets.”
“I like reckless Cole.”
I need to strain to hear her, but it’s the heat in her gaze that nearly undoes me.
The automated voice announces Covent Garden station, but neither of us moves. Around us, people surge toward the exits, but I feel as though we’re caught in our own bubble with the world fading to background static.
I’m dangerously close to erasing the distance between us. It would be so easy—too easy—to let myself want more than one night. More than one afternoon.
And the realisation scares the hell out of me.
Before I can make a decision I'll regret—or that I won't regret, which might be even fucking worse—a woman with a stroller behind us clears her throat pointedly, and only then do I realise we're blocking the exit.
After a hasty apology, Rory grabs my hand and starts pulling me toward the platform, and I let her, following in her wake like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Like I'm not actively ignoring every warning bell in my head telling me to run before this becomes something I can't walk away from.
“Come on,” she says, practically bouncing with excitement as we climb the stairs into the snow-dusted streets of Covent Garden. The cold hits us like a slap, but she doesn't let go of my hand. “I'll buy you mulled wine to make up for dragging you here.”
“I don't drink mulled wine.”
She grins at me over her shoulder, snowflakes catching in her eyelashes, and something in my chest clenches painfully. “You do now.”
And despite every instinct telling me this is a terrible idea—that I should be in my office reviewing reports, that I have responsibilities, that I don't do spontaneous afternoons with beautiful women I barely know—I find myself grinning like an idiot.
“Fine,” I relent, and the word feels like surrender and victory all at once. Like stepping off a cliff and hoping like hell I'll figure out how to fly on the way down. “But if it's terrible, you're buying me a proper whisky after.”