Chapter 4

　　(Sienna - Six weeks before the wedding)

　　The seat beside me in the first-class lounge had been empty for an hour.

　　Then it wasn't.

　　He sat down like the space had been waiting for him. No apology. No polite hesitation. Just quiet certainty.

　　Dark jacket. Open collar. The kind of watch that didn't need to announce itself.

　　My brain said: oh.

　　Not oh, someone sat down.

　　More like oh, that man should not be allowed to exist in public.

　　His glass of whiskey landed on the table. Then he turned slightly toward me and said, as though we were already halfway through a conversation:

　　"They're going to cancel your flight."

　　I blinked. "What?"

　　"About ten minutes." A slow sip. "When they do, everyone in this lounge will queue for a hotel voucher and spend the next hour pretending they're surprised."

　　I studied him.

　　"You sound very confident."

　　The corner of his mouth shifted. Almost a smile.

　　"You could stay here and suffer through the announcement with everyone else." A pause. "Or you could come upstairs with me and spend the night doing something significantly more interesting."

　　My brain stalled.

　　Did I just hear him correctly? Did he just proposition me? Just like that?

　　No buildup. No apology. Delivered in the same tone someone might use to suggest switching tables in a restaurant.

　　I felt my ovaries clench unexpectedly at the mere thought. Because the worst part was that he didn't sound arrogant. He sounded certain.

　　And the deeply inconvenient thing was that certainty, on him, was… compelling.

　　"You're very direct," I said.

　　"I prefer efficiency."

　　"And this," I said carefully, "is your efficient solution to a delayed flight?"

　　His eyes held mine. "I think you already know the answer to that."

　　The silence between us stretched.

　　I should have said no. Should have been offended, or at least properly amused.

　　Instead I found myself thinking something far more dangerous.

　　He might be right.

　　***

　　The door barely closed behind us.

　　I had just enough time to think how the hell did this happen before his mouth found mine. Again.

　　One second I was in a brightly lit airport corridor making what I had confidently described to myself as a reckless but interesting decision.

　　One moment I was in a brightly lit corridor making what I'd confidently described to myself as a reckless but interesting decision. The next I was pressed against a hotel room door with a man I'd known for fifteen minutes kissing me like he'd spent the whole evening waiting to do exactly this.

　　His hand slid around my waist and pulled me closer.

　　Oh God. This was happening.

　　My brain attempted a very late intervention.

　　You don't do this. You are Sienna Hartwell. You are responsible. Sensible. You don't do sex without a relationship.

　　His mouth moved against mine again, slow and certain, and the thought dissolved along with the taste of whiskey on his tongue.

　　Apparently tonight I did.

　　His hand slid into my hair, holding me exactly as he liked. I should have said something intelligent. Cautious. Slightly less enthusiastic.

　　Instead I kissed him back.

　　Hard.

　　The responsible part of my brain threw up its hands and left the building.

　　Because the deeply inconvenient truth was this: I had wanted to know what this would feel like from the moment he sat down beside me.

　　I felt him against me, already hard, and a shiver moved straight down my spine. My nipples tightened beneath my silk blouse, brushing against his chest.

　　"God, this is so not me," I whispered.

　　The words slipped out before my brain could stop them.

　　He shuddered. Actually shuddered. A sharp inhale through his teeth, like the words had landed somewhere deeper than I'd intended.

　　That reaction did absolutely nothing for my self-control.

　　I nipped his lower lip. He hissed softly.

　　Addictive.

　　My hands found his belt. At the same moment he dragged my blouse free, and his hands found my breasts, thumbs circling through thin lace until I gasped, heat flooding through me without apology.

　　The moment his fingers met damp fabric he went completely still.

　　Then a slow, disbelieving exhale against my neck.

　　Oh. Well.

　　"Fuck," he murmured, voice rougher now. "You're so wet."

　　My hips moved against his palm before I could stop them.

　　Good job. Really maintaining that whole mysterious, composed woman image.

　　He walked me back toward the bed. We tumbled onto it together, the mattress shifting beneath us. My skirt rode up as he slid my underwear down, and cool air met my skin a half-second before his mouth did.

　　My brain made one last attempt at protest.

　　You met him fifteen minutes ago.

　　Then his moved with slow, deliberate focus and my brain left the conversation entirely.

　　I cried out, fingers twisting into his hair as he breathed come for me against me, and the sound of those two words alone nearly finished it.

　　The first orgasm hit fast and violent, ripping a sound out of me that I fervently hoped nobody in Heathrow Terminal Five could hear.

　　He laughed softly against my skin.

　　Then he stood, dragged me toward him, and pushed inside in one long stroke.

　　The sudden fullness made me gasp.

　　"Holy—"

　　My sentence didn't survive the next thrust.

　　I hadn't seen him, yet. But what I felt was huge.

　　And when I did finally see him minutes later, fully erect and unashamedly eager, I knew I was in for the ride of my life.

　　Holy indeed…

　　I came twice more. Maybe three times.

　　When his breathing finally deepened into sleep, one thought surfaced through the wreckage of my composure: Well. That escalated.

　　I waited until I was sure.

　　Then I moved. Slow. Careful.

　　I found my clothes in the dark, dressed without sound and gave the room one last look and left without looking back.

　　The lobby was bright and merciless.

　　Powerful, I told myself, crossing it.

　　The word landed hollow. Full of something I'd just voluntarily emptied out and was already, quietly, missing.

　　***

　　(Adrian)

　　She was gone.

　　Fuck.

　　For the first time in my life, I was the one left in tangled sheets that smelled like whiskey and a woman whose name I didn't know.

　　It landed like a punch.

　　Not because she'd refused to give it.

　　Because she'd never asked for mine.

　　Most women did. Within minutes of meeting them. If they hadn't already recognized me before we even met.

　　But somewhere between the lounge and the hotel bed, names had become irrelevant to both of us, and the bewilderment of that almost made me smile.

　　I put a call through to my PA.

　　"Sally," I said, when she picked up. "I need a list of every woman who checked into the first-class lounge for DL564 last night."