Free Losing at Love by Jennifer Iacopelli Page A

shut behind him, he carried her into the kitchen and set her down at the kitchen table.
    “What time are they expecting us at Cecconi’s?” he asked, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and then one for her as well, before leaning on the island at the center of the room.
    “Seven,” she said with a sigh, looking down at her dress, fingering the ends of her windblown hair. “I should change. There’ll be cameras and sponsors there tonight.”
    “Do you really want to go?” he asked, putting down his bottle.
    Penny wrung her fingers together as she looked up at him. Was she that easy to read or did he just always know exactly the right thing to say, voicing what she wanted before she even had a chance to do it herself. “If I said I didn’t…”
    “A night in with you sounds absolutely perfect. I’d spend every night in if I could spend them with you. I love you, Pen.”
    He’d said those words before, just moments after winning the French Open, but she hardly thought he remembered saying them. Neither of them had mentioned it since, but now the words hung in the air between them and it felt like the first time. No adrenaline, no crowd losing their minds in the background or cameras capturing every moment, just the two of them in his kitchen deciding to stay home rather than head back out into the London night.
    Her ankle didn’t twinge at all as she stood and crossed the tiled floor or maybe it did and she just didn’t care. He offered her his hand and she took it, letting him pull her into his arms, her chest pressing into his as she let herself fall against him. She raised her head and he met her half way, swooping down and sealing his lips over hers, his hands gripping onto his hips and the kiss shifted from soft and sweet, the non-verbal response to his declaration, to something a little different, a little rougher. The scruff of his beard rasping against her skin in that deliciously familiar way.
    Sliding her tongue against his, she was suddenly weightless, his hands under her thighs lifting her and spinning quickly, sitting her on the kitchen island, skirt pushed up around her waist. Fingers, calloused from hours upon hours of training danced across her thighs, pulling her to the edge of the counter. Penny reached behind him and tugged at the back of his shirt, pulling the soft cotton over his head before lightly scratching her nails down his back, around his sides and then up over the smooth muscles of his chest.
    He groaned into her mouth before pulling away, a hand tilting her neck to just the right angle to run his teeth toward the sensitive skin of her neck. His fingers twined into the chain of the necklace he’d given her in France, the one with the 1936 British penny attached, the one she always wore.
    “Like that?” he asked, though he had to know the answer.
    Her hands flew to the button of his pants, fumbling with it for a moment before releasing the clasp and pulling down the zipper as he fisted his hands in the skirt of her dress. She lifted up a bit to free the material and as she rose up, bracing herself on his shoulders, a motion just behind them caught her eye. Light brown hair, eyes just like the ones belonging to the man still tugging at her dress and a hand over her mouth. Alex’s mother was standing in the doorway.
    “Alex,” Penny said, tensing; he must have felt it, because he pulled away and then followed her gaze behind them.
    “Christ! Mum, what are you doing here?”
    Penny slid off the counter and winced as she landed a little awkwardly on her ankle, but more in anticipation of the pain than anything else. She straightened her dress and tried her best to hide a little behind Alex as he pulled his shirt back over his head, sending his hair in all directions.
    “I’m so sorry,” Anna Russell said, in a soft English accent, different from her son’s but Penny couldn’t quite pinpoint how. “I thought you two would be gone. I wanted to take back that book I