Loving Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 3) Page 12

  “Well then, I choose both,” he says, beaming as though he’s just won some sort of prize. “Good to know you find me irresistible.”

  “Ah, but I persist in my resistance,” I reply, elbowing him gently in the side. “Which I guess makes me some sort of goddess of fortitude.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  When we’ve finished munching and have disposed of the greasy paper, we make our way towards Hyde Park, the massive green expanse of land south of my flat.

  I can’t quite believe this is the first time I’ve actually set foot inside its perimeter since my arrival in London. If our private little garden was paradise, Hyde Park is another sort of perfect. Beautiful, gnarled-limbed trees greet us on every side, silhouetted against the waning daylight. At one point, two young girls on ponies go trotting by us, completely decked out in their posh riding gear. I want to yell out, “Could you possibly be any more English?” as they fly by, but it seems too undignified, somehow.

  Galen guides me through the park, showing me a number of features as we follow various paths: this and that fountain memorializing this princess or that duke, or a pond that comes complete with a pair of elegant swans who seem to be posing for photographs.

  I think my favourite thing about the park, though, is the people in it. Whether they’re sitting on the grass staring at their cell phones, cycling, or just walking around, they all look so relaxed. Not like in other parts of London where everyone seems in a constant, slightly perturbed hurry to get from A to B. This place seems to be an oasis that takes them away from the bustle of the city and soothes their souls.

  At the park’s west end, a tall, gold monument of some sort greets my us from a distance. At first it looks like someone’s ripped the spire of a Gothic cathedral and stuck it into the ground, but as we approach, I realize that it’s not part of a building at all. It’s a sort of ornate, pointed canopy. Under the roof sits a throned man who seems to be entirely made of gold.

  “This is the Albert Memorial,” says Galen as we circle around to the front. I can see now that the golden man is clothed in fancy duds, and very regal looking. “Queen Victoria commissioned it when her beloved husband died.”

  “She must have been really into him,” I say. “Not a lot of women go so far as to have giant gold statues of their spouses erected.”

  “She was pretty fond of him, yes,” he says, gesturing across the street. “More evidence of her adoration. This is Royal Albert Hall.” I see now that he’s pointing to a huge, round building, lit warmly from the bottom up. It’s sort of a cross between classical architecture and early nineteenth century English. The Roman Colosseum meets the Edwardian era, or something. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

  “That’s where we’re going?” I ask.

  Galen nods. “Speaking of which, if I’m so irresistible, perhaps you should consider having a giant concert hall built in my honour.”

  “I promise I’ll consider it,” I laugh. “Once I’ve got eighty million dollars to my name and a lot of free time.”

  Surrounding the hall are a series of tall, red brick buildings with massive chimneys—no doubt extremely expensive, lavish apartments for London’s most affluent dwellers. Like everything else in this city, they’re warm, beautiful, and inviting.

  As we approach the venue, Galen guides me around the building, pointing out various architectural details. “Notice that there’s a frieze up above,” he says.

  “What’s a frieze?” I ask. It sounds like something cold, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got that wrong.

  “It’s the mosaic band that wraps around the building, with all the pictures of people on it.”

  I immediately spot what he’s talking about. A long strip that looks like something out of ancient Greece extends around the entire structure far above our heads. The narrow mural of mosaics depicts men and women working away at this and that profession, whether it’s sewing, or construction or any number of other jobs. The frieze alone must have taken years to complete; I can’t even imagine how long the rest of the hall took.

  “This whole building is incredible,” I say, perfectly aware of the awe in my voice. To think that all this was built in memory of a man. Yep, this Victoria chick was seriously gaga over Albert, no question about it.

  Of course, if I had the cash, I’d happily have a giant building constructed in honour of Galen’s hotness. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind if someone gave me a life-sized solid gold statue of him, too.

  Even a blow-up doll would suffice.

  When we get to a numbered door on the far side of the circular building, Galen takes my hand, leads me inside, and hands over our tickets. The woman who takes them smiles at us. “Do you know how this works?” she asks, and he nods.

  Our hands still locked together, he leads me down a series of hallways. “Remember,” he tells me, “These are standing room tickets. This could get a little tight.”

  “Tight?” All this time, I’ve been picturing us standing at the very back of a large concert hall, leaning against the wall as we listen to music waft around us. But apparently I’ve been wrong. There is absolutely no part of me that expects the reality or the strangeness of Royal Albert Hall’s actual layout.

  We walk out into a large, circular area full of people. Most of them are young and energetic, many chatting animatedly. As I look around, I realize with a jolt of horror that we’re not at the back of the venue; we’re at the very centre of it. Which means that hundreds, if not thousands, of people are sitting in the multitude of seats surrounding us like an amphitheatre full of spectators, about to watch us get devoured by lions.

  I spin around, staring at them in shock. Hundreds of sets of eyes are trained in the direction of our strange throng, amused, no doubt, by our awkward shuffling and lack of chairs. I feel strangely naked. Instinctively, I press myself into Galen, seeking reassurance.

  “Um, this is crazy,” I whisper, looking up into his eyes. He’s staring down at me, a friendly grin telling me that everything will be fine.

  “It’s a little odd, I know. But truly, it’s one of my favourite places,” he replies. “Just watch yourself. The standing room crowd often wears backpacks to keep the likes of us away from them. People are very territorial here.” With that, he points to a young man who’s swinging around next to us, a large pack on his back. “It’s their way of maintaining their personal space. Very English, and slightly hostile.”

  “Well, it works,” I laugh as I dodge another pack. “They’re like turtles with enormous shells.”

  “Come, stand in front of me,” says Galen, turning me and guiding my shoulders to angle me so that I face the stage, away from him. “I’ll protect you.”

  A sea of warmth washes over me as he presses himself into me from behind. I do feel protected, though it’s not like I have a pack of wild bears coming at me or anything. But it’s enough that our herding area, or paddock, or whatever this weird place is, is teeming with bobbing heads and shuffling bodies to the point where there’s barely any room. Galen’s my buffer to keep strangers from squishing themselves into my backside.

  As people move in and out from in front of me, I feel myself pushing harder into my companion, who stands firm and manages not to let anyone push either of us around. He’s smart enough not to wrap his arms around me, but occasionally he’ll block a passerby with one hand or the other, protecting me from getting whacked in the head.

  By the time the lights go down, I’m comfortably leaning against him, my body purring with pleasure at the feeling of his warmth around me. Despite the oddness of this situation, I can’t help but think that standing room is way better than seats would have been. This way I get to feel Galen without any rule-breaking. I get to enjoy contact without naughtiness. Though I have to admit, every second that we touch is arousing me. By the time an hour’s up, he may discover that I’m nothing more than a melted puddle on the floor in front of him.

  I’m almost relived when the musicians make th
eir way on stage and the lights dim. The first piece that the orchestra plays is by Tchaikovsky, a suite from Romeo and Juliet. It’s romantic, sweeping and beautiful. As the sound of the music swirls through the air around us, I find myself pressing my head back into Galen’s chest, closing my eyes as I listen.

  Another perfect moment is upon me. Another moment of bliss and heartache at once, as I revel in the presence of this amazing man and the experience he’s given me.

  And that’s when it happens.

  I feel his arms defy our rules and wrap around me, holding me gently at first around my waist, his fingers interlocked as we rock just a little bit to the music. Giving in to my desire, I put my hands on his, holding them tight. It’s both the most and the least innocent way to touch him, my fingers slipping up his right forearm, feeling the roped muscles under his wool coat.

  My breathing is growing more and more shallow with each minute that passes, and a part of me dreads the completion of the piece, because when it ends, we’ll have to pull apart to clap.

  I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to let him go.

  But we do let go. We do clap. And when we’re done, I feel Galen leaning in to whisper in my ear. “Rachmaninoff next. Extraordinary pianist coming up.”

  I’m not sure if he deliberately made it sound like he was saying penis, but I let out a little snicker anyhow.

  A man dressed in tails comes out from backstage, alongside the conductor. The crowd seems to know him, because they cheer like mad when he takes a bow. Something about standing among the throngs of overly excited twenty-somethings makes me feel like I’m part of an experience far bigger than myself. I applaud along with them, and at one point I let even out a loud hoot before the performer sits down at the keyboard.

  The lighting changes for this piece, dimming so much that we’re engulfed in a sea of darkness so thick that I can hardly see the young man standing in front of me. The orchestra begins to play, and after a few seconds, the pianist joins in, sliding his fingers over the keyboard like he was born to do this. I lean back again, pressing my head into Galen’s chest for the second time. My butt is pressed firmly into him, and I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, or if he’s as excited as I am.

  Actually, I am sure. He’s very, very excited.

  “Extraordinary penis is right,” I murmur to myself.

  He slips his right arm around me again, laying his palm on my ribcage just below my breasts, and I press myself back, grinding gently into his hard-on. We’re breaking all the rules repeatedly, but I don’t even care.

  We can suffer the consequences later.

  As we move together, I can feel him growing harder, thicker, swelling with want and desire. I can sympathize. My core is aching for him. I want him inside me so badly that I’m hardly able to stand at this point.

  In a daring move, he pulls up the bottom seam of my blouse until his palm is touching my belly. Slowly, he slides it over just enough to slip the zipper at the side of my skirt down, then moves his hand to the front of the garment and pushes it down, tucking his fingertips inside. My breath catches in my throat as I pull my stomach in to let him follow through on his mission, certain that everyone can hear the gasp that I let out as his fingers find the inside of my panties.

  His breath is hard in my ear now. He makes no excuses for his unabashed disobedience towards our system of celibacy rules. No apologies.

  I won’t apologize either. I grab his wrist, pushing his hand further down, encouraging him to seek out what he’s looking for.

  When he finds my sex, we both let out a quiet moan.

  He slides his fingertips over my bud and whispers, “Fuck, Riley, you’re so wet,” before laying a gentle kiss on my neck. I pull my face up to press against his for a moment, nodding as I slip my hands behind my back. The sweater that he’s wearing under his jacket is long enough for me to work with, so I craftily undo the top button of his jeans and slide his fly down. I reach inside and wrap my right hand around the glorious, rock-hard shaft that’s tucked away inside his loose boxers.

  This is insane. Despite the fact that thousands of people are standing around us, I want to get him off. I want to stroke Galen’s dick until he comes. I want to make him explode. Fuck, I even want to hear him call out my name when it happens.

  I want all of it.

  I press my eyes shut, revelling in the darkness that’s bathing and concealing us, and explore his hard cock with my fingertips, even as he swirls his middle finger over my clit.

  I know what’s going to happen. I know that before this piece is over, we’re both going to give in to each other. We’re going to lose ourselves in one another, our eyes closed, Rachmaninoff blasting through the room. Two people who’ve never had sex are going to get each other off with their very, very naughty fingers, in the middle of Royal Albert Hall.

  There are no rules right now. All that matters in this moment is our pleasure.

  All that matters is our mutual desire.

  All that matters is that for this brief moment in time, Galen Davies belongs to me.

  And I belong to him.

  Seventeen

  Galen

  Well, fuck me.

  I’m going to come.

  As mad as it sounds, I’m going to ejaculate while standing in the middle of Royal Albert Hall, and for some insane reason the thought fills me with joy.

  Riley’s stroking me with both hands now, milking my shaft like a sex goddess, and I’m going to fucking come. My cock is throbbing right now, so close…

  This may well be the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.

  I’m trying not to focus on my own pleasure, though. I want to focus on her, on her sweet, swollen little clit. I want to feel her body rock with her orgasm, to feel her tense and release as it washes over her.

  I know she’s close. As the music swells around us, I can feel every muscle in her sexy, curvy body tighten up. So I speed up the little circles I’m drawing over her bud. Fuck, she’s so beautifully wet. Her pussy is so in need of a hard cock. So ready for it. And damn it, I would love to bend her over and pound her until I spray hot seed inside her. I’ve fantasized about it a million times since I met her; dreamed about it, even.

  “Come for me,” I whisper so quietly that even I can’t hear the words. But she can, apparently. She nods assent, her hands speeding up their pace on my cock. I know what she wants, of course. She wants us to come together. “Come for me,” I repeat, “and I’ll return the favour.” I’m just thankful that my cock is aimed inside my clothing, so the brunt of the mess will be concealed when the lights come up.

  The music builds to a crescendoing climax, the pianist unleashing with everything in his soul as the orchestra blasts rich chords through the atmosphere.

  I hear my name on the air, escaping from Riley’s lips. “Galen,” she moans. “Oh, God.” As promised, the second I feel her tense into the first shudder of her orgasm, I let myself go. About a year’s worth of pent-up sexual frustration unleashes, my cock shooting heat onto my stomach again and again as Riley breathes hard against me.

  I lean forward, pushing my fingers inside her as her own orgasm dies down to a low purr, her channel imprisoning my fingertips with tight jolts of pleasure. I’m greedy; I want more. I’m loving the feeling of her pussy as it pulses around me. I love possessing her like this.

  The piece has to be finishing soon, so I pull away, drawing my fingers up to my lips. As Riley turns to look up into my eyes I lick them clean. Perhaps it’s too dark for her to see clearly, but she knows what’s happening. I can tell. She knows that I’m tasting her, savouring her selfishly on my tongue.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, kissing my cheek.

  I smile. Reaching down, I zip up my jeans just as the lights begin to come up in the hall.

  By the time intermission hits, we’re two presentable adults, both of whom smell very much like sex.

  As we walk into the lobby, surrounded by throngs of excited audience members, we
’re largely silent. I’d say the feeling is awkward, but it’s not exactly that; it’s more like we’re both trying to solve a difficult mathematical equation. Weighing the pros and cons of this strange relationship of ours.

  What would happen if, say, we kissed again?

  What would happen if we fucked?

  Most significant of all:

  What would happen if we fell in love?

  I turn to Riley as we make our way through the crowd, only to see her greeting me with an inquiring expression that mirrors my own.

  “I’m sorry,” I say instinctively. “That was probably very irresponsible of me.”

  “Then I guess I’m sorry, too,” she replies as we sidle up to the bar. We each order a glass of wine, and once they’re in hand we move to the quietest corner we can find.

  “So, I suppose we each deserve a severe punishment,” I tell her.

  She nods. “Agreed.” But she doesn’t look like a woman who intends to hand down a punishment. Unless it’s one that involves giving me another hard-on. Her eyes are narrowed seductively, she’s biting her lower lip and unless my eyes are deceiving me, she’s pulling herself towards me.

  “Tell me, Riley,” I muster from somewhere deep in my chest, “what would you like from me?”

  She slips closer, laying her glass on a side table as she advances.

  “I want a kiss,” she says softly as she reaches for the front of my jumper, pulling me close.

  I edge forward until I can feel her sweet breath stroking my skin. “You don’t mean that,” I tell her, trying my best to protect us both from what’s about to happen, though I’m not entirely sure that I want to. “It’s the wine talking.”

  “I haven’t taken a single sip,” she says. “I’m not drunk. Well, not on alcohol, anyhow.”

  “I’m not so certain,” I protest. “I don’t want us to do something we both might regret. Perhaps we should start slower than a kiss, to test the waters.”

  She leans back and crosses her arms over those perfect tits of hers, which only draws my eyes to them. My hard-on is back with a vengeance now.