Resisting Mr. Kane: An Age Gap Office Romance (The London Mister Series Book 2)
Resisting Mr. Kane: Chapter 3

“Do you have any ID?” I size up the teenager across the bar. A gold necklace complements his tracksuit and baseball cap, and his lip is adorned with a light patchy moustache that is very distracting.

“Yeah,” he replies sullenly, handing over a UK driver’s licence. The laminated edge of the licence curls upwards where it has been tampered with and a new photo inserted over the original.

I calculate his age. There’s no way this guy is twenty-nine. “This is a falsified ID. Is this your twenty-nine-year-old brother’s licence?”

He shifts nervously. “What are you on about? It’s mine. Gimme a vodka and coke.”

“Watch your mouth, kid,” a gravel-infused voice demands from the corner of the bar.

I glance up and stare into the eyes of Tristan.

Huh, so this is what it feels like when your heart stops. Like a sexy angina attack.

He came back.

Tristan breaks our gaze to glare at the young bloke. The guy sizes up Tristan’s hulky stature, glances over at his mates, and decides it’s not worth the effort. He walks to the other side of the bar to repeat his pathetic attempt at getting served.

“You’re back,” I say in a high pitch. The goofy smile sweeps across my face before I can restrain it.

“Elena.”

My stomach flutters. The way he says my name, it’s so intimate. I imagine his breathy moan against my ear, repeating my name over and over in a litany as he climaxes.

A smirk builds across his face as if he can read my dirty mind.

I lean across the bar full of giggles. “So, you decided this place isn’t so bad after all?”

“No, it’s even worse than I remembered.” He shudders. “I’m staying in a hotel nearby…it’s convenient.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, my throat tight. “What did you do today?”

He props himself on a stool. He looks tired. “I had business back home to deal with. Then I went for dinner at Botrini’s.”

“The Michelin star restaurant?” I’ve been dying to go there.

“That’s the one.” He shrugs, clearly not as excited as me. Probably because he can afford to dine there every night of the week. “Have you been?”

“No.” I laugh. “We’ve been eating gyros from a beach stand most days. Even sometimes for breakfast,” I admit.

He shudders. “Food from the street?”

“You make it sound like I’m rummaging in dustbins… You can’t only eat high-end food everywhere you go. Trying street food is part of the local experience.”

“I can only eat high-end wherever I go.”

Asshole.

“I eat anything,” I announce, wondering where I’m going with this.

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Glad to hear you are so adventurous with what you put in your mouth.”

Embarrassment spreads from my face down to my neck. I’m not on my A game here. “Did you have company at dinner?” I ask casually.

“No, just me.” It’s all he offers.

I open my mouth to say something, then stop. What’s his deal? He’s clearly not here with a wife or girlfriend. He doesn’t appear to be having a good time by himself.

A crowd sweeps in from the street, and I reluctantly move along the bar, trying to keep up with the shouting of orders. Bartending is not my forte. Doubled up with his presence, I’m extra jittery.

He came back. He’d rather stick knives in his eyes, but he came back!

With the grace of a baboon, I move around the bar, knocking over glasses and serving shit cocktails. I’m hanging on to this job by a bikini thread but how can I focus on anything other than the visual and auditory delight in the corner?

Calm down, Elly. Pull yourself together.

Jonas puts me on floor mopping duty when the crowd begins to thin out. Out of my peripheral vision, I see Tristan putting his wallet in his jeans pocket.

Shit. He’s escaping again. This is my last chance.

I decide that his corner of the bar has a particularly dirty floor and needs extra attention.

“I’m leaving now,” he says when I’m in earshot.

“Sure, it’s late,” I reply. Don’t go. Stay. Ask me out. Do something. Anything!

He rises from the bar stool, and I flash him my brightest smile. “Good night, Tristan. It was lovely to meet you.” As much as I want to barricade him with the mop, I restrain myself.

He nods, walks a few steps, and then stops. “Are you walking home by yourself?” His brow furrows. “I see your friend isn’t here tonight.”

“Megan has a hangover,” I explain, my heart thumping at the thought of where his line of questioning is leading. I had to convince Jonas she had something contagious so she wouldn’t get fired on day two. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Can I walk you home?” he asks. “I’m not trying to come on to you,” he adds quickly. “You can’t walk home by yourself dressed like that.”

I give him a twisted smile. “I change before I walk home.”

“Still.” He raises his eyebrows. “Well?”

“Yes, Tristan.” I laugh nervously even though it’s not funny. “You can walk me home.”

Forty minutes later, I change into my jeans and a T-shirt and examine my underwear. I’m wearing a soft cotton bra and underwear set designed for comfort, not sex, damn it. What am I even saying? I’m not having a one-night stand with this strange Adonis of a man, no matter how much I’m craving it. Besides, logistics will force the situation. Megan and I share a bedsit with two single beds, and the last thing I saw when I left was Megan sprawled over her bed whimpering about becoming teetotal.

As Megan said, no one is getting nooky on this working holiday unless it’s on a beach.

When I head outside, Tristan is leaning against the wall across the street. In a few steps, he closes the gap between us. He’s been out here waiting for twenty minutes while I finished up.

His eyes blaze as he takes in my new outfit. “Better.”

I’m in a world of trouble here. I look at this guy and want hot-ass sex.

“You’re stunning, Elena.”

“Hardly.” I snort. “But it’s better than the uniform.”

The streets are littered with drunken teens taking inconvenient naps on the pavement and impatient moped riders trying to swerve around them. It’s like Night of the Living Dead.

To me, it’s the most romantic stroll of my life.

I feel his hand slide down my lower back as we amble through the streets. Heat spreads up my spine. It’s distracting.

“Where are you staying?” I look up at him.

“The Athena.”

Of course, he is staying in the five hundred quid a night five-star resort. “I thought you were staying on a boat?”

“I’m between the hotel and the yacht.”

One half of the world doesn’t know how the other half is living. Some people are living between houses. This guy? He’s living between a five-star hotel and a yacht. I shake my head in disbelief.

“Do you usually walk home with your friend?” He frowns as we pass a few dubious characters lying on the curb. “These streets aren’t safe this late at night. This isn’t the best part of town.”

“Yes. She usually walks back with me to our place of residence.” I groan. “Only the cockroaches call it home.”

“Here we are,” I say.

He stares gobsmacked at the decaying apartment block with rubbish littering the doorways and dirty blankets dangling from the windows. “Now I understand why people prefer to sleep on the pavement.”

I’m mortified but also amused. “It’s cheap. We pay fifty euros a week for a studio.”

“You sleep here?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m backpacking, Tristan. It’s fine. Don’t you remember backpacking?”

“Not in this decade,” he says dryly. “I’m nearly forty.”

“Okay, don’t you remember being young then?” I tease.

“Cheeky.”

“Do you want to come up?” I ask tentatively, wondering if I can persuade the cockroaches to give me some privacy…or Megan to stop moaning.

“Absolutely not.” He makes a face. “But I’m not leaving you here either. Can I pay for a hotel for you?”

“No!” I shriek indignantly.

We shuffle awkwardly as we dance around what will happen next. This is it. He either says good-night or he makes a move. Our eyes lock, and I angle my body towards him.

He steps back.

“Wait.” I grab his arm and smash my body into his wall of hard muscle.

His brow furrows and he actually shudders.

My cheeks burn with rejection.

Just as I’m about to step back, his face presses down to touch my forehead, and his open mouth comes down onto mine.

I open my mouth, too desperate and eager, and like I’ve opened a floodgate, his mouth takes hungry possession of mine. I press my body flush against Tristan, thrilled to replace a growing hardness pushing against my stomach.

His hand grips the back of my head as his tongue invades my mouth with urgency now.

My thighs part and I wrap my arms around his muscular waist so I can press his bulge closer against me. Oh, that feels like something I want.

In response, he groans into my mouth, kissing me like he hasn’t kissed a woman in years. Then as quickly as it starts, he breaks away, looking at me for so long I think he’s going to say goodnight and leave me here.

I stare back at him with unashamed begging in my eyes.

“Would you like to come back to my hotel?” he asks quietly. “There’s a private beach. We can go for a walk on it. I can get you back safely here afterwards.”

“Sure,” I choke out. “Walking is fun.” My head warns me not to follow a strange guy to his hotel, but my body is ready to mount him like a jockey.

He takes my hand and leads me through the streets towards the posh side of town. The Athena is about twenty minutes away and, as we walk, his thumb draws teasing circles on my palm. It is a delicate movement that sends shockwaves directly between my thighs. By the time we reach the Athena, I’m at boiling point. I’m barely able to focus on what he is saying.

The Athena is perched high on a hill overlooking secluded beaches, blending in seamlessly with the landscape of whitewashed houses dotted along the Mediterranean coastline. Golden streetlights bounce off the water and the buildings in the darkness, creating shades of orange.

I gasp. “I wish I had my camera with me.”

“I doubt you’d get a good shot in this poor light though.”

“I invested in a good lens for night photography,” I explain. “I did a photography evening course last year at uni and I’ve been chasing the perfect night photo ever since. It’s one of the reasons we decided on the Greek islands, it’s such a beautiful landscape.”

“I would love to see some of your photos sometime.” Sometime hangs in the air. “Translator, trainee lawyer, photographer, a woman of many talents.” His eyes crinkle. “Maybe not bartending.”

I slap him on the chest. “You haven’t seen all my talents yet,” I return, winking. Christ, Megan would be proud of that one.

Caught off guard, his brows rise. “Come on, trouble, I’ll show you the best beach on the island.”

“Holy shit!” I say too loudly as he leads me through the hotel lobby. A few hotel staff look on, disapprovingly. “This place…I can’t imagine staying here.”

We walk out the exit door to the secluded beach where dark waves are crashing in the moonlight. I make a mental note to tell Megan I’ve found the perfect beach for nooky.

“I prefer the sea at night,” I muse. “Megan and I did a night kayak when we first arrived. It was amazing. You must spend all your time in the water here.”

He shrugs. “I haven’t been in yet.”

“What?” I shriek in horror. “Are you crazy? If I had this on my doorstep, I would be swimming morning, noon and night.” In fact… “We have to go for a midnight swim!”

“What?” He snorts, crossing his arms over his wide chest. “Absolutely not.”

My heart hammers and I don’t know if it’s the darkness of the night or the tequila shots I had earlier, but I decide to be brave. “Fine,” I reply, shimmying out of my jeans.

“What are you doing?” he demands, as I pull my T-shirt over my head.

“I’m going in,” I say before I can chicken out.

“Those waves are rough tonight,” he growls. “You are not doing this.”

My brows shoot up. Is that an order?

He stares down at my cotton bra and panties.

I race towards the sea until I’m submerged waist-deep, acclimatising. It’s not freezing but it’s cold enough for my nipples to peak. Turning back to the beach, I see him glaring at me, his arms still folded.

“It’s warmer than it looks,” I shout to the shore, my voice drowning in the sea sounds.

Waves crash over my shoulders, pulling me under. Unfazed, I dive under the current. Growing up twenty miles from a beach and despite the Welsh weather, I’ve been swimming for years. The mistake many people make is freaking out, opening their mouths, and swallowing gallons of water.

As I glide along the seabed, strong arms pull me out of the water.

“What the fuck, Elena?” He pulls me to standing and glowers at me as the waves crash around our waists. He has stripped down to his boxers. His chest heaves up and down, his dark hair wet and clinging to his forehead.

Goosebumps break out along my skin and I’m not sure if it’s the water temperature or the growing heat between my thighs, or maybe both. Damn, he’s sexy when he’s angry.

“I thought you were in trouble,” he mutters. “You could have told me you swim like a mermaid. I nearly had a heart attack.”

“At least it got you in the water.” I bite my lip.

His eyes darken as he fixes them on my chest with Clark Kent heat vision and a low grumble escapes his throat. I’m starting to worry I’ll burst into flames.

I glance down, shivering. My cotton bra has turned transparent in the water. My nipples protrude like bullets. I might as well be topless.

My gaze follows the treasure trail of hair down his delicious V-tapered body. The water moulds his boxers around his growing hardness like a wrapped present just for me.

Time stands still as we brazenly devour each other’s bodies with our eyes.

Yes, please.

“I’m so turned on just looking at you,” he whispers hoarsely, eyes meeting mine. He swallows hard, his Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down. “It’s embarrassing.”

Stepping forward, I run my fingers over the wet sculpted muscles on his broad chest.

Delicious.

“Now you have me in the water,” he murmurs. “What are you going to do with me?”

My fingers trace down his chest to his stomach, dancing above his boxers. He gives me an arrogant smirk while he gauges whether I have the guts to go lower. His eyes urge me farther and all my remaining inhibitions drown in the water as my hand slides down his lower stomach into his boxers.

Wrapping my hand around his hard length, I let out a delighted gasp at what I replace.

He’s massive. And so ready.

As my grip tightens around him, he groans, and I begin to stroke up and down his swollen hardness. Hell, yeah, this feels good.

I need to see him. All of him. I lower his boxers, and his erection springs free.

I stare down, half terrified, half in awe.

“It’s okay,” Tristan says softly, reading my face. “We don’t need to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with.”

“That thing looks like something NASA should launch into space.” I continue my slow and steady motion, sliding my hand up and down him.

He lets out a loud laugh. “You’re the only girl who has made me burst out laughing while I’m hard.” His hands curl around my buttocks, and he presses me hard against his bare erection.

I feel it through my flimsy cotton panties and whimper, grinding against it. Like we are fucking with our clothes on.

His mouth crashes down on mine. As one hand remains on my butt, the other hand moves around to my lower stomach, playing with the hem of my pants. He pauses, giving me the opportunity to stop him. Instead, I squirm impatiently; I need his fingers lower. Now.

I widen my legs.

He looks into my eyes and slides his large hand into my wet underwear. Then I spread my thighs apart for easier access, writhing against his fingers to push them to where I need them to be.

“Horny little thing, aren’t you?” He chuckles as his fingers rim my entrance. “I’m going to enjoy making you come.”

“Yes,” I say in a choked voice into his shoulder, not sure what I’m saying yes to. Just yes.

His entire palm is now massaging my opening. Spreading me open with two fingers, he thrusts his middle finger into me, first slowly, then deeper, faster.

“This feels…good.” I groan, gasping as he pushes deeper.

“Good?” he grunts, sliding a second finger in.

I whimper as he really starts working me down there. Then his thumb replaces my clit.

“Ahhhh!” I tighten around his fingers as his thumb circles. The pressure is too much. Tingly shivers erupt over my entire body. This is it. The real deal. I’ve never had the big O with a bloke, I’m ashamed to say, it’s only ever been self-administered. My ex, John never managed to get the job done. He rubbed so hard that I felt like I had carpet burns.

Tristan’s other hand tilts my jaw, forcing me to look up at him. “Look at me when you come.”

I let out a strangled sound that would be embarrassing if I wasn’t so close to climax. Something about doing this in the ocean makes it doubly arousing. Anyone who looks out their hotel room window will see me naked in the sea grinding against a man I met twenty-four hours ago, and it’s the biggest fucking turn-on ever. Pleasure bubbles up inside me as he touches me like no one else ever has.

I claw at his biceps as my muscles contract around his fingers again and again, desperate for release.

“You feel unbelievable.”

“Tristan…” I moan, my body spasming as he strokes my clit furiously. I spent all last night in bed fantasising about that deep voice talking dirty to me. It’s even better than I imagined “I’m going to…I’m coming.”

It’s too much; my entire body shakes as the most explosive orgasm of my life erupts.

A low growl reverberates from his chest as he watches. My legs buck, and his other hand catches me, pulling me to him.

I stare at him, my mouth hanging open, trying to replace my breath. I need more. “Take me to your room,” I say hoarsely.

His eyes darken as he studies me. “Are you sure?”

I nod. My hands curl around his length, hard and ready for me. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

He growls against my ear and bundles me up in his arms like I weigh nothing.

I cling to him with a goofy smile as he strides through the water to the beach. Tonight, I have no inhibitions. I’m going to have the best sex of my life with this man.

I’m going to try everything.