The King - S.R. Jones Page 0,1

myself together.

Feeling slightly more human, I tiptoe downstairs, attempting to avoid waking up the friend, the kid who probably owns this mansion. Or, at least, his parents do. I can’t see how the kid could have afforded this.

Unless he’s a tech whizz or some such. But then I’m a tech whizz, aren’t I? And I’m not rich. I creep down the last few stairs. I suppose I could be. If I wanted to, I could go to the dark side and work as a hacker, but I’m too much of a goody two-shoes. Too scared. Hell, this is only my third time being drunk, the second man in my entire life that I’ve slept with, and I’ve never taken drugs. I don’t even drink all that much caffeine. I’m pathetic.

I hit the downstairs hallway and look around, spotting an open door into what looks like the kitchen. I slide into the room and fish my phone out of my bag. I open my phone and click on my cab ordering app, then as it loads, I balance the phone between the crook of my neck and use my free hand to open the fridge.

Checking the app, I sigh; it’s not working. No WIFI, and no cell service. Shit, the sticks sucks.

I need a drink. A non-alcoholic drink. I rarely drink alcohol because I’m a boring wuss, but also it makes me feel shocking. Always has.

Staring in the fridge, I smile.

Heaven. A large carton of orange juice, with the bits in it too, sits temptingly in the doorway.

I could go searching the house for the internet box and try to connect my phone to the WIFI, but I doubt there’s much of a cab service around here anyway. I’d be better off wandering down the lane and seeing if there’s a bus stop somewhere nearby. We’d driven through a tiny village to get here, I recall, so surely there will be a bus stop there? Then I can get to the nearest train station and get home to my tiny studio flat in Camden.

I grab the juice and open a few cupboards looking for glasses, but find none in the first three, I look in and, shrug, impatient now. Feeling guilty but needing the juice so much it overrides my propriety, I unscrew the top and swig from the carton.

As I drink, I turn to look out the window. Nice! Large landscaped gardens surround the house and seem to stretch for miles. What an awesome place to live. So much space.

“Do you always drink from the carton in a stranger’s house?” The deep voice washes over me. Sexy, rough, accented, and horribly familiar.

I freeze mid gulp, and then cough and splutter.

I daren’t turn around.

It can’t be.

This must be a nightmare because I know this voice, and yet this voice doesn’t belong here. Surely to God, not here, in this McMansion in a sleepy Surrey village.

This voice belongs to the man who haunts my erotic nighttime adventures. The man I was only thinking about moments ago in bed. The man who calls to the alter ego in me, the girl who dreams of becoming the hacker she has the talent to be, of traveling the world, of being with dangerous men.

This voice belongs to the man I haven’t seen for a long time. My Russian fantasy.

Konstantin.

Surely, it can’t be. Still, it must be. I’d recognize those harsh consonants anywhere. His Russian accent never failed to turn me on when I served him all those months ago, in that cozy little coffee shop where I lived my best life. It might not have been a dream job on paper, and the pay was crappy, but I loved Rigatto’s. It had such a great atmosphere.

I tell myself, still not daring to move, that this can’t be the same man. Can’t be the Russian businessman I had the biggest crush on. That would be such a freaky coincidence.

I must look a total state, last night’s makeup smudged all over my face. My hair is a mess. My clothes are crumpled. Still, I can’t spend the rest of my life staring out of this window at the garden outside, while I pray the man standing behind me isn’t my man-crush. Slowly, holding my breath, I turn.

In the doorway stands the most delectable man I’ve ever seen.

Yep, it’s him alright.

Fuck my life.

I’ve fantasized about seeing him again so many times, and not one of those fantasies involved me looking this shitty.

London has a lot of hot men