London Calling (Chase Brothers Book 2)

By: Nana Malone

One





Pussy came easy. But then, for Xander Chase, most things came easy.

As he slid a glance over the lithe, naked back of the blonde in front of him and he locked his teeth, he wished some things came easier than others. It didn't matter how much his balls ached or how much sweat dripped off his brow, there’d be no relief for him, no matter how many times he had her.

As she moaned, writhed, and shouted things that were dirty enough to make any porn star blush, he fought to stay focused. She was a means to an end. Unfortunately for him, that end wasn’t pleasure. More like revenge. She had information he needed. And she, like half the women in London, was susceptible to the Chase charm.

She screamed through her orgasm and Xander just wanted it to be over. A means to an end. And also, she was Alistair’s wife. Screwing her was one more domino on his way to taking down the man he hated.

His brain did him the favor of replaying the night over and over and over again. Every decision he’d made. Every step that had led him here. How well she’d sucked his cock on the way to Notting Hill. The slide of her tongue over the length of him as he spun his Huyra over the rain slick streets of London. The feel of her pussy milking his cock. Her brazen offer for him to have her any way he wanted.

But he had zero desire to come. And no amount of fucking this nearly nameless, faceless blonde would solve that. After today, he’d barely remember her. Hell, he could barely remember her name as it was. Gemma? Jemima? Julia? Something J-sounding. Bugger, he really did have to get better with names. But he would remember whose wife she was.

He pulled away from her and she made a half-hearted, feeble attempt to reach for him. Who was she kidding? That was orgasm number four for her. She’d be out cold in seconds.

He slid the satin sheet over her naked form and sat on the edge of his bed. His dick twitched as if to remind him of how he got into this mess in the first place. He scrubbed a hand down his face. He sat there for several minutes until her deep, even breathing alerted him to her slumber. Right. Time to go to work. He tugged on his boxer briefs and slipped into the living room where she’d dropped her bag.

He made sure he kept an eye on the bedroom door as he booted up her laptop. Thanks to one tequila too many, and his very skilled hands working their magic under her panties, she’d told him everything he needed to know to take a decent stab at her password. He got it on the third try. Cat’s name. He didn't bother to roll his eyes.

When he was done copying all the files to his external hard drive, he shut down her computer and slid it back into her bag before silently stalking back into the bedroom. She was still knocked out, but the sheet had shifted slightly, exposing her bare arse. Fuck. Maybe he should have taken her up on her offer to fuck her however he wanted.

He scowled at his straining erection. His cock begged him to go back to bed. To give it another go in the hopes that this time would be different. That she would be different. But he knew better. What was the definition of insanity again? No point in going back to it, mate, it won’t do any good.

There was only one way to relieve the gnawing, clawing hunger. But knowing the solution didn’t mean he wanted to go through with it. Get in the shower. Release the tension. Then call the cleaning crew to deal with the unwanted guest. Most importantly ignore that niggling thought at the back of his skull. That tiny voice telling him the kind of man he was. Telling him that inside, he was beyond buggered. Truly fucked up and there’d be no respite for him. This was his personal hell.

He didn't bother to tiptoe into his spacious bathroom. Not that she’d wake up anytime soon. He avoided the mirror and stepped into the shower, blasting on the hot water, and letting the piercing pellets from multiple sprays scorch his skin. In a long-practiced move, he reached for the shower gel, using just enough to coat his hands, then he stroked himself.

A harsh groan tore from his throat on contact. So bleeding good. He focused on the memories of the woman in his bed. The gentle, yet suggestive smile as she’d brushed up against him. That was always his favorite part. The possibility of something great.

Of course it was never great. At this point he doubted he’d know an epic shag if it came up and bit him on the arse. But he kept repeating the same patterns over and over again. What was the definition of insanity again?

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