Working With Heat

“How’d you get into the habit of putting your life online?” he asked as he watched her.

“My dad was an MP—military police, not member of Parliament—in the Marine Corps. We lived all over the world, just me and him, and the internet was the best way to stay in touch with family back home and with other kids I met and then moved away. I was pretty young when I started taking pictures and writing a travel blog. By the time I was in high school in Guam...” She paused to think. “No, it was Oman, just before Dad left the Corps. By then, I wasn’t just blogging, I was making videos and posting them to YouTube.” She shrugged. “By the time I started college, it was more than a hobby. Then my grandmother shared the YouTube channel with a friend who sent it to her daughter who worked at HuffPo. That’s when I started getting more followers, getting a little more traction.”

“And here you are,” he said lightly, but shadows lingered in his eyes.

She quickly cropped then uploaded the photo of the sunset. “You’re offline enough for both of us. We’re yin and yang, maintaining balance in the universe,” she added, flicking him a smile.

He smiled back and opened his elbow, inviting her to loop her arm through his. She did, and once again the heat of his body seared through the thin cotton of his shirt. With her arm looped through his she couldn’t take pictures, but she didn’t want to let go, either. She tucked her phone in her front pocket and matched his slower pace. Funny, she thought. I couldn’t wait to get away from Lamborghini Man, but I don’t want to miss a moment of this walk.

“How did you learn so much about ‘80s music?”

“It’s the music my dad listened to, and I could count on VH1 or MTV in English wherever we were living. I watched Behind the Music, Where Are They Now, that kind of thing.” Something clicked into place inside her. With a sweeping gesture she took in Spitalfields. “The song. It’s about London’s East End.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “You didn’t know that?”

“The lyrics didn’t mean anything until now. So my date was doomed before it began. He’s a West End boy and I’m an East End girl,” she said with a laugh.

Charlie’s lips twisted into a smile. “You’re not really an East End girl.”

“I live in the East End,” she protested.

“I live in the East End,” he replied. “You use it as a base for all your travels. You must be getting itchy feet. Where’s the next trip?”

“The Orient Express,” she said. It was a total turnaround for her. Rather than hopscotching through Europe on discount airfare, she would travel by train through to Istanbul. It was romantic, large scale, with a rich history to mine, and maybe the kind of thing that could catch an editor’s attention. A millennial’s perspective on a decidedly twentieth-century method of travel, through lands reshaped by war to a city with a history dating back nearly ten thousand years. The idea was either brilliant or complete pants. She wasn’t sure which.

“The Orient Express still runs?”

“Not as a single trip, but you can cobble together the same itinerary. I’ve almost saved up the money. Another couple of weeks and I’m off again.”

“Sounds cool,” he said.

His hip brushed hers with each step, the shift and flex of muscles and bones heating her from the inside out. “We haven’t seen much of you lately. The pub quiz, mostly. What’s going on?” she asked lightly.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, but his attention was focused mostly on her thumb, gently tracing the old burns on his forearms revealed by his rolled-back sleeves. “I’ve been busy.”

“A creative rush?” she asked, pushing a bit, curious to know how much he’d reveal, trying to piece together what she’d picked up from Elsa and Kaitlin, who had lived in the ground-floor flat longer than she had. Charlie was a glass artist who sold pieces in galleries around the world, he was from the East End and...he’d been married before.

“You could say that,” he said as he unlocked the front door of the house he owned in Princelet Street. Milla bumped her bike up the steps and into the foyer, tiled in the original black-and-white octagonal tiles. The house reminded her of Charlie, a run-down Georgian on the outside, but the interior was an intriguing blend of old architectural details and new appliances and lighting.

He hoisted her bike into the rack he’d installed when he realized all three girls walked or biked to save money and were afraid of having their bikes vandalized if they were locked up outside. Thoughtful, Milla added to the list in her mind.

“Sounds like your readers aren’t doing a better job of picking your dates than the dating websites,” he said with a grunt.

“Thanks,” Milla said. “All relationships fail until one doesn’t. I’m not going to close myself off just because someone calls me a name or a crashing bore backs me into a corner at a bar and natters on endlessly about the derivatives market or circuitry.”

“Or glass.”

“You’ve never backed me into a corner and yammered on endlessly about your art. I have to practically pry details out of you.”

He paused in the entryway and let the door to the street close behind them. To the left was the door that opened into the flat she shared with Elsa and Kaitlin. In front of them were the stairs that led to the second and third floors, where he lived. Her heart started to pound in her chest, slow, deep thuds that pushed her blood through her veins in thick, heated pulses. He leaned against the wall opposite her, looking for all the world like a good male friend making sure his good female friend was safely in her flat before he went on his way. But with his hands shoved in his pockets and his shirt open at his throat, he was right out of her dreams. The summer sun gilded his hair, picked out glints of gold in his scruffy beard, highlighted his pulse at the base of his throat. He looked at her, his blue eyes dark and intense under his eyebrows, making him look just a bit dangerous.

The wary look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. He felt the connection, too, but wouldn’t take the first step. So she crossed the foyer and kissed him.

The sharp edge of his scruff scratched deliciously at her lips as she brushed them back and forth across his mouth, tempting him to open them. When he did, she touched the tip of her tongue to his, tasting the Guinness he preferred. When she withdrew, his tongue traced the edges of her teeth, then her lower lip. She licked the spot, then bit it, watching his eyes drop to her mouth as she did.

She closed the last couple of inches between them, and exhaled softly when her body pressed against his from her knees to her breasts. Everything that was soft about her—breasts, stomach, thighs—pressed against everything that was hard about him. Chest. Abdomen. His cock, thickening against her lower belly.

His hand cupped her jaw, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones, then he bent his head and kissed her, using lips and teeth and tongue to capture her mouth. Charlie had learned patience handling sand heated until it became liquid, pliable. He’d learned how to seduce a woman by working with heat. He didn’t rush. He drew it out, nipping at her lips, tilting his head to kiss the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, before returning to her mouth and using his lips to open it farther, his tongue advancing in slow stages, until she stepped closer, giving most of her weight to his body, weaving her thigh between his. She put her hands on his hips and tucked her index and middle fingers through his belt loops, pulling him closer, letting herself get absorbed in the texture of his beard against her lips and tongue. He turned, seeking out her ear, nipping at the lobe.

She bent her head to rest on his shoulder, felt the heat of his skin through the fine cotton of his shirt, smelled the scent of him, so elemental. Soap, skin, the heat he absorbed all day. He’d been her friend for months, but now there was the possibility of something more. “Invite me up.”

His fingers trailed through her hair to her jaw. He brushed his thumb across her lips and said, “Are you sure?”

There were a dozen good reasons not to do this, not to sleep with her friend. Ruining the friendship. Making things awkward between all five of them. But the look in Charlie’s eyes was one really good reason to do this, and Milla had never been one to act out of fear. She’d take a chance on the chemistry, knowing she’d put their friendship at stake.

“I’m sure,” she said, and kissed him again.

Chapter Two

In the split second after Milla whispered, “Invite me up,” Charlie thought through all the reasons why this was a really bad idea. By the time he was Milla’s age, his ex-wife had burned him to a husk, both personally and professionally. He’d changed everything for her, moved out of the East End, polished up his accent, ignored the way glass called to him as an artist because he’d believed her dreams for them were better than his.

Then she’d shattered those dreams in the most public, humiliating way.

He’d crawled back to his roots, sown deep in the East End, to friends like Billy, to his family (who, for the most part, refrained from saying I told you that wouldn’t work when he’d stumbled out of the divorce with not even his pride). He’d apprenticed himself to a master glass artist, learned his art, nurtured relationships with the overseas galleries immune to his ex-wife’s influence, giving him an outlet for the work he created once he could even think about art again.

Milla was impossible to slot into a neat little compartment like East End boy or West End girl. American, but born in England and raised all over the world. Living her life through her mobile to the point where he wanted to wing the bloody thing in the Thames. Maybe that was worse, falling for someone whose roots were sown in the internet.

For four long years he’d fought to rebuild his life and career. Risking it all on someone whose idea of privacy was so warped it included asking total strangers to pick her dates wasn’t just a really bad idea. It was madness. But his body, home to the animal instincts that had led him wrong with Chelsea, the desires he’d taught himself to ignore, was saying this was the best idea he’d ever had.

Lightning round to break the tie. His body won, his brain taken down by the roundhouse punch of desire lighting him up like molten glass. Peering into her big brown eyes, feeling the lush softness of her body against his, lit him up like only the best kind of risk could. So very, very wrong, and yet so very, very right. Dangerous combination, that.

But then she said she was sure and kissed him again, and he remembered what it was like to want, the power it gave another human being, the ceaseless grind of it.

His hand slid from her jaw, down her shoulder, to clasp hers to lead her up the stairs. Unwilling to let go, he fumbled with his keys one-handed until he unlocked the big black door leading to his flat. Once he had them inside, he backed her into the door. Milla dropped her purse and phone and linked her now free hand with his. Charlie lifted them and pinned the backs of her hands to the door on either side of her head. She arched against him, soft and strong, giving him every reason to use his hips to push her hard against the door, channeling everything he had into the kiss. She angled her head and licked the upper bow of his lip, a maddening, teasing promise that was so like Milla. All surface, until you dove in and discovered the depths.

His beard, now scratchy-soft from a string of days and nights at the hot shop, rasped against her chin and cheeks, the sound audible in the silence of his flat, and incredibly sexy. She writhed between him and the door, tugging first one wrist free, then the second. Reluctant to let her go completely, he rested his weight on his forearms on either side of her head. She ran her hands through the fine thick hair until her fingers met at his nape. He sank into the touch while she brushed her thumbs over his jaw.

“I can shave,” he offered. Her chin was already pink. He usually forgot anything more than the basics of hygiene when he was in the middle of creating a piece, remembering when he startled himself in the mirror with his wild-man growth, and then he’d trim it down and start all over again. It was a good sign. During the weeks when all he made were the curving, swirling glass ornaments he sold regularly, he always remembered to shave.

“Please don’t,” she said. She trailed her fingers down his throat to the first button on his shirt, and unfastened it, spreading the fabric and placing her open mouth against the hollow at the base of his throat.

This time his hands tightened in her hair, pulling just enough to make her gasp and rub into his hand. He forced his hands to relax, forced his mind to stop cataloging all the ways their touches turned possessive. Milla was like molten silica and small concentrations of gold blending together to produce the rubino oro or cranberry glass he favored. Tart, sweet and a deep color he couldn’t stop looking at. She wore a halter dress with a plunging neckline that tied behind her neck, baring her cleavage and her shoulders, a very ‘50s look she wore with combat boots on the weekends. That was Milla in a nutshell—pretty as a pinup and taking no shit.

She nuzzled into his shirt and nipped at his collarbone, and his brain shut down when a wave of lust crashed over him. He reached for the bow securing the top of her dress, untied it and dragged the backs of his hands over her collarbones, then her breasts as he let the fabric drop. Then he pulled her hair forward, so the blunt-cut ends just brushed the tops of her breasts.

She peered at him from under her heavy fringe and pushed his shirt off his shoulders. Her fingers smoothed back up his abdomen, pausing at his nipples, then sweeping down his arms to lift his hands to her breasts. Her tight nipples pressed against his palms as he cupped the soft, pale flesh. She traced the collection of scars and burns flecked over his hands until he pinched her nipples and bent to kiss her again. Her mouth was soft, open under his while she worked at his belt and zipper.

“Take me to bed,” she murmured against his mouth.

“Absolutely,” he said, and wrapped one arm around her waist, hoisting her right off her feet. She giggled, then whooped when he dropped her on the bed. His jeans sagged low on his hips when he went to his heels to slip off her shoes. Braced on her elbows, she watched him, completely unself-conscious about being half-naked with her skirt rucked up around her thighs.

He squeezed each foot and watched her sigh with pleasure, then slid his hands up her calves, over her knees to the tops of her thighs, taking the skirt with him. When he found the elastic edge of her knickers, he curled his fingers into it, and, eyes fixed on hers, tugged them down.

Without blinking, she lifted her hips and let him bare her. It was maddeningly sexy. The dress had to zip somewhere, the back, or the side, maybe, but he didn’t care. He tugged her knickers to the floor, then stood between her legs at the foot of the bed, his gaze irresistibly drawn to little glimpses of her sex as he pushed his jeans and pants to the floor. He scooped her up in one arm and shifted her higher on the bed to reach for the condoms in his nightstand. He tore one off the strip, opened the package, then hissed in his breath when Milla took it from him and rolled it down.

He made himself wait, pouring all the tension and longing into kiss after kiss, until she was lifting her hips and digging her nails into his shoulders. The next time she arched into him, he slipped just a little bit inside, and inhaled her shuddering exhale. Slowly but surely, he let her draw him in, until he met her searching hips with his first full thrust, powering her back into the bed. She arched her neck and moaned, shivering under his touch as he trailed his fingers over her breast, down her ribs to gather her skirt and grip her bare hip.

“You like the dress?” she murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, too far gone to say anything more eloquent. It was feminine and sexual, enticing and powerful, all at once.

She wrapped her leg around his and used her hips to roll him to his back. Her hair curtained her face as she bent and kissed him, her mouth hot and sweet against his. “How about now?” she asked as she lifted off him, then slid back down.

He looked down. The loosened top and full skirt hid their joined bodies until she took all of her weight on one hand and gathered the fabric with the other, giving him teasing glimpses of his slick cock gliding in and out of her body.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” he said.

He gripped her ass with both hands and shifted with each thrust until her eyes drooped closed and her head dropped back on her neck. A deep flush bloomed on her cheeks and collarbones, then spread along her throat and chest as he lifted his hips into hers. He dug his heels into the bed and held on to his control by the skin of his teeth until she came apart above him. He closed his eyes and gave in, release sweeping through him in sharp, pulsing waves.

The first thing he heard when he recovered his hearing was Milla’s satisfied panting breaths in his ear. The second thing he heard was laughter and a door slamming downstairs.

The third thing he heard was his brain reminding him that the risks were great, but the consequences would not be ignored.

“I smell curry. They must have given up on getting a table somewhere and gotten takeaway instead,” Milla said, stretching like a satisfied cat.

He rolled out of bed to deal with the condom. When he came back, Milla was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, all dark hair and red mouth against his white sheets. “Let’s not—” he started, then stopped. Shit.

“Tell anyone?” she finished, listening to the faint clink of plates and laughter coming from the ground floor. “I don’t usually kiss and tell, but sure, if you want to keep it quiet, I’m fine with that.”

“That’s fine,” he said quickly. Better than fine, actually. He sprawled in the bed and braced his head on one hand. With the creative jag he’d been on lately, the powerful, intense, all-consuming demand that he work until he dropped, he’d been able to ignore how he felt about Milla dating. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could ignore it, but he wasn’t ready to have that conversation now and potentially throw off his work.

“Just stay?” he asked. “They’ll be up for hours.”

“That works,” she said. “I’m a heavy sleeper and I left my bedroom door shut, so they won’t miss me.”

The sun had finally set, casting evening shadows across the floor and bed. He found the zipper at the side of her dress and drew it down. She rocked from side to side so he could pull her dress off and toss it at the foot of the bed. He lifted the sheet and blanket, inviting her under the covers.

“I’ll sneak in early tomorrow,” she said drowsily.

Charlie watched her drift, her face no less vibrant as sleep claimed her. The jury was still out, but he knew one thing for sure. As of now they were more than friends, and all the neat compartments he’d built for his emotions were falling apart.

* * *

When he woke up the next morning, the other side of the bed was empty. He rolled onto his back and knuckled sleep from his eyes while he took stock. Sunshine poured through the windows, heating the air enough to bring out a faint hint of Milla’s perfume. The bathroom door was open, the shower curtain dry, so she’d not risked the clanking and banging the old pipes made and had sneaked out before dawn, when everyone in the house would be asleep. He knew why. He’d been a talented scholarship student from the East End trying desperately to make his way with art-world royalty from Kensington, hyperattuned to everyone else’s thoughts, feelings, desires. Milla had spent her life as an outsider, a stranger in a strange land. With an outsider’s keen awareness, she’d picked up on his mixed messages and given him that combination of sweet heat and silence he’d wanted, and not seemed to mind at all.

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