Neighbor From Hell Read Online Georgia Le Carre

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Erotic Tags Authors: Georgia Le Carre Advertisement1

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I have to be on guard.

The car slows, and I glance out, my breath catching as a hotel looms. It’s grand and towering, its facade all glass and metal, windows gleaming like a thousand eyes. The kind of place where money buys secrets, where men like Hugh get what they want. My stomach knots, my guard slamming up, hard and cold. This is it, isn’t it? He’s played me like a fiddle. It is payment time. He leads me here, expecting me to crumble, to be his for the night.

I go quiet, my hands clenching tight in my lap, my nails biting into my flesh.

I’m not falling for it, I tell myself, jaw clenched, not tonight, not ever. I’ll pay for my own room. What a disappointment. They were right after all, the horsey-faced baker and the bitch in the Ladies’ toilets. The laughter we shared, the ease of it—he’s not that man, not really. He’s the smooth charmer, and I’m just another mark, no matter how my heart flutters when he looks at me. Right now, I’m vulnerable, raw from the night’s highs, and confused and disarmed by how he’d made me laugh. I let his humor sneak past my walls.

But I won’t ever trust him again.

The driver opens my door. I step out, and the hotel’s shadow swallows me. Hugh’s beside me, guiding me through the lobby—marble floors, chandeliers dripping crystal, air rarified and exclusive. I want to ask what the hell we’re doing, to call him out, but my throat’s tight, and my pulse is loud in my ear. I won’t make a scene here.

I wait, daring him to try, to lead me to the best suite in the hotel where I’ll shut him down, cold and final. He’s silent, too, his steps measured and calm. He thinks he’s already won. You got another thing coming, Buster.

We ride the elevator, its mirrored walls throwing back my reflection: wide eyes, flushed cheeks, a woman on edge. The lift rises higher and higher. He must have booked the penthouse suite. A room where I can see the stars while he fucks me.

I brace myself, get ready to say no, maybe slap his face for good measure, as the doors open. He leads me down a hall, up a staircase, not to a room but to a heavy door marked Roof Access. My breath catches and confusion spikes as he pushes it open, revealing not a bed but a helipad with a helicopter waiting, its black hull sleek under floodlights, blades still.

“Are you ready to go? Hawk’s End awaits,” he declares, turning to me, his voice steady, no hint of guile, his eyes catching the light like they see right through me.

I laugh, a sharp, jagged sound, relief crashing over me, hot and dizzying. My cheeks burn with shame. I’ve done it again, cast him as the predator, assumed the worst when he’s just… taking me home.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice trembling, guilt heavy in my chest. “I’m ready.”

I follow him to the chopper. My heels feel unsteady on the concrete as he helps me into it. I strap in, my hands shaky. The engine starts, and we lift off, the hotel shrinking, London sprawling below like a beautiful dream I’m leaving behind.

This time, I let myself really look.

Coming here, I was too nervous, too wired to see, but now, I press my cheek to the window, the glass cold. The city’s a sea of light—street lamps like golden veins, pulsing through the dark, the Thames a gleaming black ribbon winding through the city. Big Ben’s face shines, a beacon against Westminster’s spires, while the Shard slices the sky, all glass and ambition, its peak lost in mist. Slowly, the bright lights thin, giving way to suburbs, then countryside—fields stitched with hedgerows, silvered by moonlight, their edges soft, like a painting smudged by time. Villages flicker in as warm dots of life.

I feel almost weightless, my breath fogging the glass, the world vast and fleeting below. We fly over Hawk’s End and head towards Montrose in the gentle dark. The manor’s outline is sharp, a crown against the stars, and I feel it—home, strange and new, pulling me back.

We land, the grass swaying under the blades’ final hum. He helps me out, his hand warm and walks me across the lawn, his fingers grazing the small of my back, a touch so light it’s a whisper. My skin hums, alive to him, and I’m torn. Wanting to pull away, wanting to lean closer.

My cottage comes into view, its porch light casting a yellow glow. I stop at the door and turn to face him. The breeze stirs, cool, lifting his hair across his forehead, and my hand moves, unthinking, reaching to brush it back, to feel its softness. Before I can touch him, I freeze, my arm aloft, heart slamming—what am I doing? His eyes flick to my hand, then to me, a slow smile spreading, warm, not mocking, and I’m caught, my breath shallow, the night pressing in.


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