Chapter 3: Ease Me

Evangeline

The air in London carries a distinct flavor—crisp, cold, and faintly redolent of rain. Alexander's car is gently gliding through the streets, but the man I’m accompanying is looking out the window, his face taut as if his thoughts are eating him alive. 

Maybe there are. I need to change that though. It’s after all what I’m here to do—keep his mind off things, keep him happy before his wedding in two days.

His jaw is tense, clenched so tight I can see the flexing of his teeth, his fingers drumming against his knee, saying much more than actual words could. His head is elsewhere. He’s thinking about everything—his confusion, the wedding, her, them, maybe even me.

Perhaps he’s wondering how a harmless night in the club yielded this moment. A woman he doesn’t know in his car, traveling with him after sharing a steamy night. It can be overwhelming even for a man like him.

I look out the window and my eyes widen, a smile splitting my face. “Stop here, Peter!” I exclaim excitedly, my voice breaking the silence. 

Alexander’s eyes snap to mine as though my voice pulled him out of the daze, his brows forming into a furrow. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” I reply as I open the car door with a laugh. “I’m just saving you from yourself.”

We’re parked at the Thames, near a riverbank that is crowded with all kinds of street performers and food kiosks. It's lively, and looks fun. I think it’ll serve well in brightening Alexander’s brooding mood. 

“I have to rest, Angel, I have a meeting early tomorrow.” He breathes, his eyes tight at the corners.

“Tell that to someone who actually cares.” I say, grabbing his hand and tugging him out of the car before he can continue his protest. He resists for all of two seconds, then sighs and gives up, following behind me sheepishly. 

“You’re impossible… so fucking impossible,” I hear him mutter with a hint of amusement in his tone.

I smile as I drag him through the crowd until we find a caricature artist drawing a grumpy-looking man with big ears. Perfect.

“Sit,” I direct Alexander, leading him to the artist's stool.

He looks at me, brows raised in warning as he bites out, “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.” I tell him, my voice mocking. “This is happening, Creed, so don’t bother arguing and sit your ass down. Unless, of course, you’re afraid that your ears truly are that large.”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile, his head shaking reluctantly as he plops into the seat. 

Ten minutes later, we're both laughing—really laughing—as we hold up the finished drawing. The artist has transformed Alexander into a grumpy bear in a suit, his shoulders slumped and a storm cloud hanging over his head.

A perfectly painted picture of how he actually looks. A big, grumpy man.

“It's you, Mr. Creed. We should definitely pay extra for doing a good job.” I tease, poking his side.

“That is definitely not me,” he grumbles.

Such a spoiled, grumpy brat.

I chuckle amusingly. “It definitely is you.”

He shakes his head, his smile lingering. “You’re insufferable.”

“Thank you.” I say as I pull him with me, running through the crowd to a street food stand. Alexander swears he wouldn’t put something so unsanitized into his mouth, I shove it down his throat, giving him a taste of what his prim and proper ass has been missing out on.

And then the man is going back for seconds and trying out more stands. 

He soon eases out and we’re truly having fun. Taking pictures, eating more food, watching entertainers dance. It really is a good afternoon. Then evening comes and Alexander returns to his usual grumpy self. I guess his social battery has run out.

“One more thing, Creed, and we can go back to the hotel.” I don’t wait for his inevitable protest when I forcefully pull him into the London Eye, insisting we take in a bird's-eye view of the city. As the capsule goes up, the city rolls out beneath us in threads of light.

“This is not bad,” Alexander admits in a low voice.

I smile. “High praise coming from you.”

He looks at me—really looks at me. He starts from my hair, and he’s unaware of when he reaches out a hand, running his finger through my strands. The same fingers move down, swiping across my lashes. I blink up at him, unable to speak, completely hypnotized by the storminess of his orbs. 

He holds my gaze as he murmurs a soft, “Thank you.” 

“For what?” I ask.

“Not very many people can be so free with me, treat me just like I’m as normal and ordinary as them,” he answers, his voice gentle. “So, thank you. For this. For just being. . .you.”

I swallow hard, my chest tightening. 

This wasn't how it was meant to be—not the softness in his voice, nor the way my heart leaps unexpectedly. I muster a playful smirk. “Don't get all sentimental on me, Creed. We still have plenty of fun left to ruin your life with.” 

 He smiles playfully. “Before that, I need to go over a few documents then get a good sleep. I’ll have a busy day tomorrow.” 

“You’re such a boring old man, Xander.”

“And you’re such a bold young woman, Angel.” 

The lines in his face soften, his words carefree as we head back to his car and drive back to the hotel. As we sit quietly, the voice in my head reminds me of what this is. 

I'm not just taking his mind off the wedding he’s confused about and the woman he loathes to marry. That is all this is and will ever be; I'm showing him that there's a whole lot more to life than the load he carries. 

I cannot get carried away no matter what.

He’s allowing this because he trusts me not to get carried away and want more.

. . .

We’re back to the hotel, in an exquisite suite, clean and tucked under a thick duvet. Alexander and I are surprisingly curled around each other, facing one another.

Our faces are so close, close enough that even the slightest movement can join our lips. And our hearts—I can feel us beating in perfect sync.

Still, he’s resisting. I don’t blame him.

I try not to think about the beating of my heart, the way it picks up the closer we get. My gaze flickers from his lips to his eyes, and then back again. His eyes are a little darker.

 I feel the heat from his body, but I can’t make myself move closer. Something holds me back, and I’m not sure what it is. Maybe it’s the fear of rejection, of being told no.

No sex—that was his one rule. 

Alexander’s lips part slightly, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. He doesn’t. He doesn’t move at all, and neither do I.

“We can’t,” he murmurs.

“I know,” I whisper.

My hand slides down the length of his arm, my fingers curling around his wrist in a firm grip and moving his hand to my pussy. We both heave with breath.

“What are you—”

I cut him off. “You’re so rigid, Xander.” I push his fingers between my folds and when they graze where I want them the most, I shudder with a moan.

“No sex,” he breathes.

“I know,” I respond. “But this isn’t sex. This is you getting pleasure from pleasuring me.”

“Angel,” he grumbles in protest, yet, he continues to stroke me gently. 

“You’re tense, I see it.” I moan out, “just ease me and you’ll relax more. I’ve seen it work for a lot of people.”

Gulping, his eyes go to drop the space between us, but I quickly grip his chin, holding his face up, his eyes to mine. “Don’t look away,” I whimper. “We cannot look away from each other as we do this.”

He nods as he strokes me teasingly, his breathing fast, almost as if he feels every inch of pleasure with me.

“Oh. . .yes,” I hush out a whimper, my muscles tightening as I near the edge of an orgasm.

“Fuck, Angel, you like that?” He grunts.

“I do. . .I’m so close. . .please. . .”

His strokes move from precise to teasing. My body shakes with each pulse. The scream is building up in my throat, coming in sharp gasps of Alexander's name.

He tells me to come, he sings of how much he enjoys watching my face as I come with his name on my tongue.

I let him see it again—the scrunch of my face, the cry of his name like a prayer as I jerk into his fingers, convulsing through an orgasm. I fight to keep my eyes open as I shatter, making the energy shift. It goes from physical pleasure to intimacy in a split second.

We both lean in, our lips almost touching when we suddenly realize what is happening. 

Alexander is the first to move his head away. He clears his throat and asks, “Are you good?”

I nod. “Perfect. How do you feel?”

“Relaxed.” He answers on a clipped tone. It’s silent for a moment, then he whispers my name, “Evangeline?”

“Hm?”

“You’ll leave tomorrow morning. I don’t want you here anymore.”

I blink, taken aback by the way the warmth in his voice disappears. “What? Why?” 

“I just can’t do this anymore,” he says, running a hand through his hair. 

“Is it because…” I swallow hard, searching his face for answers. “I apologize if I—”

“I almost had sex with you!” His voice rises, and he pushes away from me, jumping out of bed to the other side of the room. “I almost fucked you for the second time in less than two days!”

“And why’s that so bad?” I ask, standing. My heart is pounding, but I force myself to meet his stormy gaze when he turns. “You hate your fiancée, and you don’t even want to be married.”

“But I’m an honest man,” he snaps. “A straightforward man. I hate her, yes, but I want to be able to look at her face…into her eyes when I tell her I can no longer push forward with this. I want to be able not to feel guilty.”

“Xander…” I whisper his name like a plea, taking a step toward him. He holds up a hand to stop me.

“You will pack your things, and you will leave, Evangeline.” He says with a tone of finality. “Don’t be here when I get back from my meeting.”