Chapter 12
Aurora
The hotel room feels different now than it did this morning.
This morning, I'd woken to an empty bed and a note that had stung despite my best efforts to shake it off. Now, as I stand in front of the mirror, adjusting the emerald dress I'd chosen for dinner, my reflection shows a woman who can't stop smiling.
The dress is simple but elegant, fitted through the bodice with a sweetheart neckline that showcases just enough skin to be interesting, falling to mid-thigh in soft, flowing fabric.
I'd brought it to London on a whim, one of those just-in-case items that had sat unworn in my closet since I got here.
But tonight feels like the perfect occasion.
I smooth my hands down the silky material, checking my reflection one more time.
My freshly styled hair falls in loose waves over my shoulders, the icy highlights catching the light.
The deep green brings out the blue in my eyes, and my cheeks are still flushed from the cold—and from Cole's kisses at Somerset House.
God, those kisses.
“Get it together, Rory,” I murmur sternly to my reflection, but I can't stop the smile that spreads across my face.
Once we got back to the Landmark, Cole had insisted on getting us a reservation despite it being a Thursday night over the busy holiday season, claiming he had “connections.” Then, after exchanging phone numbers, he’d dropped me off at my room door and promised to text if there was a change of plans.
I glance at the clock. Seven-twenty. Ten minutes until I'm supposed to meet him downstairs. Plenty of time to—
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts, and my heart does a little flip.
Cole?
I cross the room and pull open the door, and there he is, standing in the hallway.
The sight of him literally steals my breath.
He's changed into dark pants and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal those tattooed forearms that I've been secretly fantasising about since this morning.
His dark hair is slightly damp, as if he's just showered, and he's tidied his beard, revealing the strong line of his jaw.
But it's his eyes that hold me captive—those moss-green eyes that are currently travelling down my body with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathless. His eyes snap back to mine, and what I see in them makes my knees weak.
Heat.
Want.
Something darker and more primal, sending a shiver straight through me.
“Rory,” he breathes, and my name sounds like a prayer. Like a curse. Like both at once.
He runs his hand through his hair, his jaw clenching hard, and then he's moving.
In two strides, he's through the doorway, his hands coming up to frame my face before his mouth crashes down on mine with a hunger that makes me gasp.
I barely register the door closing behind him—he must have kicked it shut—because all I can focus on is the way he's kissing me like he's drowning and I'm air.
His lips move over mine with desperate intensity, his tongue sweeping into my mouth when I part my lips on a moan.
One hand slides into my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it, while the other spans my waist, pulling me flush against the solid heat of his body.
I clutch urgently at his broad shoulders, trying to find purchase, trying to remember how to breathe.
But then his teeth graze my bottom lip, and rational thought scatters completely.
“Fuck,” he groans against my mouth, walking me backwards until my spine hits the wall.
“Rory, Christ—” His body presses against mine, pinning me to the wall, and I can feel every hard plane of muscle, every racing beat of his heart.
When his hips press forward, I feel the evidence of his arousal, and my entire body lights up with answering need.
“Cole,” I gasp when his mouth leaves mine to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jaw, down the column of my throat. His teeth scrape against my pulse point, and my knees actually buckle, but he catches me easily, one strong arm banding around my waist to hold me up.
“I'm sorry,” he murmurs against my neck, though he doesn't stop kissing me. His lips glide to the sensitive spot just below my ear, making me whimper, the sound desperate even to my own ears.
“I know I'm early. I know we're supposed to go to dinner.” His mouth finds that spot again, and I arch into him with a fractured moan. “But I got to my room and couldn't stop thinking about you. So I showered, changed, and told myself I'd go wait downstairs like a gentleman.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes blazing with intensity. “Then I got to your floor and the elevator stopped for a couple who were getting on, and before I knew it, I was outside your door—” His jaw clenches. “I had to see you.”
The raw honesty in his voice and in his eyes makes something in my chest crack open.
“So I knocked.” He continues, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating tenderness, even as his other hand grips my waist with possessive heat. “And you opened the door looking like this.”
His gaze sweeps over me, hot and hungry.
“It's only been an hour since I dropped you off, and somehow, you're even more fucking breathtaking—” He breaks off, shaking his head. His eyes drop to the sweetheart neckline, dark and possessive, before dragging back up to meet mine. “I took one look at you and lost every good intention I had.”
“You lost your good intentions?” I whisper, my hands sliding up to cup his face.
“Completely. One look and all I could think about was doing this—” He kisses me again, slower this time but no less consuming, his tongue sweeping against mine in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly.
“And this—” His mouth moves to my jaw, my throat. “And about a dozen other things that would make us miss our reservation entirely.”
His confession makes my heart stutter and my thighs clench, but before I can respond, his mouth is on mine again. This kiss is different—just as hungry, but deeper. Slower. Like he's savouring me, memorising the taste and feel of me.
One of his hands slides from my waist to my hip, his thumb stroking the curve through the silky fabric of my dress, while the other threads through my hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss me more thoroughly. I melt into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, my body arching against his.
The wall is cool against my back, but everywhere Cole touches feels like fire. When his mouth leaves mine to press hot kisses down my throat, I let my head fall back with a moan.
“This dress,” he murmurs against my collarbone, his breath hot on my skin. “Do you have any idea what you do to me in this dress?” His hand traces up my side, fingers skimming the edge of my breast through the fabric, and my nipples tighten in response.
“Cole—” His name comes out as half-plea, half-prayer as his lips find that spot where my neck meets my shoulder.
“You've been driving me insane.” Gentle but firm, his teeth graze my skin, sending electricity racing through my veins.
“Walking through that market with your hand in mine.
Smiling up at me like I hung the fucking stars.
Looking at me with those big blue eyes like I'm something special.” He pulls back to look at me, his hands cupping my face with such tenderness it makes my chest ache.
His thumbs stroke my cheekbones, and the contrast between the gentleness of his touch and the raw hunger in his eyes makes me dizzy.
“You make me lose control, Sweetheart.” His voice is rough, almost raw. “And I never lose control.” The intensity in his words, the way he's looking at me like he wants to consume me, sends heat flooding through my entire body.
I grab the front of his shirt and pull him back to me, kissing him with everything I'm feeling.
Everything this man elicits within me. Everything I can't put into words.
His answering groan vibrates through both our bodies as his arms come around me, one hand splaying across my lower back while the other cups the back of my head.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel his heart hammering against my chest.
“What about dinner?” I ask, though my voice lacks any real conviction. My fingers are entwined in his shirt, my body still pressed flush against his, and the idea of leaving this room right now seems impossible.
His eyes darken further, pupils blown wide with desire.
“Fuck dinner,” he growls. “I'd rather stay right here with you.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, breathy and delighted. “That's quite the statement from Mr. Plans-Everything-Weeks-In-Advance.”
“You truly are a terrible influence on me,” he murmurs, but he's smiling as he says it. That devastating smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
Then his expression grows more serious, more intense. “Tell me you want this too. Tell me you want to stay here with me.”
The question hangs between us, loaded with promise and possibility. This is it—the moment where we decide if today was just an extension of last night, or if it's the beginning of something more.
But when I look into his eyes, I already know my answer.
“I want this,” I whisper, my hands sliding up to cup his face. “I want you.”
Something in his expression shifts—relief and hunger and something that looks almost like reverence blending together.
“Thank fuck,” he breathes, and then his mouth is on mine again, his hands sliding down my sides, skimming the curves of my waist and hips, and leaving fire in their wake.
When his fingers find the hem of my dress, I feel him hesitate for just a moment—a silent question. My answer is to reach for the buttons of his shirt.