From London With Love

08 | midsummer night steam

Ophelia had never been this brazen before.

Never.

It was like the tequila had possessed her; she slid her hands up under his shirt, feeling along the ridges of hard muscle. Andrew shuddered. His hands gripped her hips, and he made a pained noise at the back of his throat.

Ophelia nipped at the sensitive skin just below his ear.

"Do you concede?" she murmured.

He looked up at her with black eyes. "Will you stop if I say yes?"

"Yes."

"Then no," he growled. "I don't concede."

Before Ophelia had a chance to fully process what was happening, Andrew flipped her over, pinning her to the ground. She gasped as his lips found her neck, kissing a light trail down to her collarbone. Teasing her.

His mouth found her ear. "Do you concede?"

"No," she panted.

"I'll have to try harder, then."

Andrew redoubled his efforts. She tilted her head back, her eyes fluttering closed. Spicy cologne and sharp tequila clung to his clothes, and the combination was intoxicating. She was drowning in it. Dissolving.

They had played cards earlier, she thought dizzily, but they were playing a more dangerous game, now. One with higher stakes.

And Ophelia was determined to win.

She shoved at his chest, hard. Andrew fell backwards, his mouth popping open in surprise. Ophelia straddled him, pressing their bodies flush together. She kissed him slowly — almost languidly — letting her tongue sweep his mouth. Then she bit his bottom lip.

Andrew made a choking noise.

"Where the hell did you learn to do that?"

Ophelia smirked. "Conceding?"

"No."

Andrew wrapped his arms around her waist, climbing to his feet. Ophelia saw something fall to the ground — her shirt? — and then her back collided with the wall. Andrew looked at her with hooded eyes. He was being gentle with her, though, she realized. Careful. His hands shook slightly, as if he was restraining himself from touching her.

His lips found her neck. "Admit it."

"What?"

"I'm a better kisser."

"No."

"Go on." He nipped at the skin. "Say it."

She groaned, her head falling back. She had to remind herself that they were play-acting, that none of  this was real, that falling for this version of Andrew was as bad as  falling for the fictional Mr. Darcy.

But god, it was difficult.

Particularly with the way he was kissing her neck.

She buried her hands in his hair, reveling in the feeling of the silky strands. Andrew made a noise, pushing her harder against the wall. Unfortunately, this had the side effect of knocking her off balance, and Ophelia instinctively flailed, throwing a hand out.

Glass shattered.

She froze. Andrew stilled, too, his forehead buried against her chest.

"Are you alright?"

She nodded. "The lamp," she said breathlessly. "I think I hit it."

Ophelia untangled her hands from his hair. She could feel her heartbeat rocketing — or maybe it was his — and both of their breaths came in harsh gasps. Slowly, Andrew let her slide down the length of his body, setting her back on the ground.