Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Taking a sip of my bourbon, I look around the Viceroy Hotel. It’s nice. This spot is becoming my go-to place to stay whenever I need a base in London, and for good reason too. The building is massive with excellent security, but on the outside, it appears to be nothing more than a standard luxury hotel. The rooms have high ceilings with marble fixtures in the bathroom, there are a number of fine dining establishments inside, and of course, there’s the bar. A triple height ceiling soars in the elegantly appointed space, and wood paneling gives it a clubby vibe. The bar itself is made from a single piece of oak running the length of the room, and at that moment, the bartender returns.
“Another?” he asks, looking at my drink. Hell, have I finished my second bourbon already? That went quick. I shake my head because I need to keep myself together for my date tonight.
“Naw, I’ll wait for my companion to arrive,” I say. “She’ll be here in just a bit.”
Shit, who will this escort be? Yet I don’t really care because I can’t get the beautiful brunette from yesterday out of my mind. I lick my lips as images of the woman flash through my head. Her writhing beneath me, her breasts bouncing up and down as she got fucked. That little pussy clenching tight as I buried my tongue inside it, the sweet female nectar that slipped down my throat as I drank from the fount…
But shit, I didn’t even get the girl’s name. It was just a dirty, anonymous fuck before the plane landed and airport police dragged me off in handcuffs. I let out a snort then. My mystery woman probably thinks it’s better that we didn’t exchange names because she must think I’m a professional terrorist.
I sigh again, my shoulders slumping. My life is so fucked up! The woman I want to see more than anything literally thinks I’m a criminal deserving of jail time, if not the death sentence. Goddamn, life sucks.
But then, a ripple of energy runs through the crowd and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Clearly, someone’s arrived, but who could it be? A movie star? A celebrity, or maybe even the prime minister himself? I turn to look and my eyes alight on a clutch of folks gathered around the hostess stand. Something’s going on over there, and sure enough, the hostess begins to walk through the crowd, the new arrival following in her wake. I can’t see who it is but maybe it’s one of those English football stars. Soccer’s big in this part of the world, even if it’s only a blip in the United States.
But then, the hostess steps aside for a moment, and I see the woman trailing behind her. Is it…? It can’t be, but it is. Holy shit. All oxygen exits my lungs as I literally gape, my eyes bugging out of my skull. After all, it’s the girl from the flight following behind the hostess, and she looks better than ever. The vivacious brunette is dressed in a pink dress that’s modest yet eye-catching at the same time. A high neckline encases that generous bosom, and her hips twitch beneath fabric that lovingly hugs those curves. With every step she takes, the skirt rides up a little and I can just barely glimpse the thickness of her those creamy thighs. I can feel my cock already beginning to jerk in my pants as I lick my lips and allow my eyes to take in that curvy form. That figure…those incredible breasts and pussy…what are the fucking chances?
“Wow,” John the bartender murmurs while nodding with approval. “She’s hot and on her way over here, my man. If I had to guess, I’d say that’s your date,” he rumbles before stepping away to give us privacy.
Sure enough, the hostess approaches and nods graciously. “Mr. Trenton,” she murmurs. “Your guest has arrived.”
Then, the hostess departs, leaving the beautiful brunette and me staring at each other. My heart pounds in my chest as my hands fist with surprise. A bead of sweat breaks out on my brow as I fumble for words. But the woman beats me to it.
“What the hell?” she gasps, clearly shocked. “This must be a joke. This is a mistake. You can’t be Mr. Trenton because you’re a hijacker!”
Then, the conversation begins and I meet the glorious Sydney McGrath for real this time.
5
SYDNEY
When I strolled into the hotel bar, I wasn’t expecting much. It would just be another rich client who wanted to plunder my curves for a solid week. Not that I’m against that, but seeing what happened yesterday, you could say that my heart wasn’t in it.
Instead, images of the handsome hijacker run through my head. Who was that guy? And why the hell did he terrorize the plane? Most times when I think of hijackers, I think of someone deranged and filled with religious fervor. Yet the man yesterday seemed to have his head on straight (considering the circumstances) and certainly didn’t seem to be dead-set on either jihad or the apocalypse.