“Are you here alone?”
I glanced over, our hands separated eight paces back, when the contact had become awkward. “No. There are six of us. Bachelorette party.”
I might have been mistaken, but I felt as if he stumbled slightly, a hitch in his step. “Yours?”
The three martinis from dinner made that question much more humorous than it should’ve been, and I giggled. “Me? No.”
“A boyfriend?” We arrived in the lobby, and he reached out, placing a firm hand on my arm, making sure I made the journey down the short bank of steps without incident.
I shook my head. “No.” I looked over. “Is there a Mrs. Brett?”
He chewed on his bottom lip as he met my eyes, the first bit of indecision that I’d seen on his face. And damn, it was a hot look. He should rock indecision more often. The bite of white teeth combined with a tight jaw, rough stubble paired with intense eyes. “I wouldn’t be escorting you if I was attached.”
I looked away from his face, breaking the connection before I tackled him to the ground and had my Southern way with him. We reached the elevators and stopped, his finger pressing the button.
Silence. Awkward silence. I shifted in the slippers, trying to look anywhere but in his general direction. I should be better at this. I was thirty-two for God’s sake, not a fifteen-year-old girl with her date to the prom. “Are you here on business?”
He grinned, his head shaking, his hand gesturing for me to go ahead when the elevator doors opened. “No. I’m with a few friends. Blowing off some steam.”
I pressed the button for the eighth floor, leaning back against the wall, putting as much distance between us as possible. He took my lead, settling against the opposite wall, his stance relaxed, the lines of his dress shirt falling perfectly over dark jeans. I raised my eyebrows, my mouth curving into a smile. “Blowing off some steam?”
Our conversation was interrupted, a hand shooting in and catching the closing doors, the action stalling and then reversing their close. Three men stepped on. Not really men. What appeared to be twenty-year-old boys, the smell of alcohol pressing into the car with them, their glassy eyes and curses preceding their entry. I saw Brett’s eyes darken, the space between us suddenly full.
“What floor?” I asked when the doors closed and their attention hadn’t moved, no button pressed, the elevator already starting an ascent.
Mistake. Their eyes moved as one, locking on me, and the man closest to me stumbled, moving into my comfort zone. “What floor are you going to?” he slurred, the question causing encouraging laughter from his friends, one who cast a quick look in Brett’s direction.
“Leave her alone.” The tightness in Brett’s voice surprised me, and I looked up to his face, caught off guard by the hard line of his jaw, the heat in his stare, his eyes on the men and not on mine. I wanted to reassure him, not that we were friendly enough that I would assume his protection. But it seemed—from the stiffness of his body, his push off the wall and onto the balls of his feet, the iron in his tone—that he was ready to fight, to defend, to do all the unnecessary things that this bevy of boys was not looking for.
The doors slid open, and I squeezed through the men, their steps slow to move, Brett’s arm knocking them back, grumbled curses following the action, a cowardly shout of rebellion sent out right as the doors closed. We stood in the empty landing.
“Are you okay?” His eyes were dark, face tight. I glanced down and saw his fists clenched.
I laughed, pressed a light hand on his chest. “I’m fine. They were drunk. It would have been fine.”
He gripped my forearms, walked me three steps backward, until I was against the wall, and he was close enough to kiss, his face tilted down to me. “Don’t assume that. Never assume that.”
Then he closed the gap, his fingers tightening on my arms, squeezing so there was almost pain, his mouth possessive and rough at first contact but melting instantly, his hands loosening, running up my forearms until they reached my shoulders, then past that to cup my face. A sound came from me, something between a sigh and a moan, and he caught it on his tongue, our mouths molding into a fire of hot debate, the fight of our tongues one that turned into a dance of seduction—him pushing, me pulling, the press of his body getting tighter and tighter to mine, until I was on my toes, and the weight of him pressed me against the wall.
In a moment of pause I spoke, my voice gasping, my senses overwhelmed, the only thing I knew was that I wanted him too much to think straight, too much to make a coherent decision right now. “Wait.” I placed a hand on his chest, and he immediately dragged his mouth off mine, his eyes fierce, tight to mine, as he took his own ragged breath of air.
“I’m sorry. I’m not used to ... restraint.” His hands released their grip on my hair, our connection broken, and I sank to my heels, my mouth raw, my body throbbing ... wanting ... more. He’s not used to restraint? I wasn’t used to touch, to the taste of another’s mouth. It’d been years since I’d had a cock in my mouth, years since I’d felt a man’s skin beneath my touch, much less his hands on my body. I needed to step away from this man. I needed to get in my room, away from his cocky smile, his eyes that ate my soul, his hands that burned like possessive fire across my skin. I couldn’t control myself in his presence, wouldn’t be able to keep myself from yanking out his cock, pulling up my dress, and spreading my legs wide open.
He took another step back, rubbed his mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
I’m not. I blushed. “It’s fine. I didn’t exactly stop you.” I pushed off the wall, trusting my feet to hold me. I must move away. I wanted him so badly. What was I doing? My new slippers moved me silently forward. Beside me, his hands disappeared inside his pockets, his head cast down. I stopped in front of my room, took a steadying breath, and turned to him. “This is it. Thank you.”
His right hand was outstretched, fist closed. I stared at it in confusion before I realized what he was doing. I gave him an exasperated smile and held my hands out together, cupped beneath his fist, the chips falling into my palms with a dull clink. “I wanted to pay you for the slippers.”
He chewed on his lip again, the move an apparent habit, and stared at me as if sorting out something in his mind. Silence drew out, thickness in the air between us. God, I wanted to suck on that lip. Grab it between my teeth and suck. I fought the urge to squirm, the need between my legs crawling up my stomach and dragging on my breasts with its want.
He finally spoke, breaking our eye contact as he looked away. “I don’t want your money. It was my pleasure.”
I felt ridiculous, both of my hands closed around the chips. Like I was a Chinese doll ready to bow in respect. He didn’t seem pushy about coming in, my fears of wanton sluthood unnecessary given his proximity to my body. I shouldered my purse open and dumped the chips, fishing out my room key, then looked down at my feet. “Want the slippers? You could run back down. Do this whole bit again on a new victim of poor fashion decisions.”
“Nah.” He leaned one hand against the wall, the action bringing him a foot closer, still a safe distance away. “I’ll end the night while I’m up.” He pushed off the wall, held out his hand, that gorgeous mouth stretching into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Riley.”
“Back ‘atcha Brett.” I shook his hand, releasing it quickly. Either I was imagining it, and was in serious danger of embarrassing the hell outta myself, or we were one slip away from headboard-banging a hole through to the next room.
I inserted the key, pushed down the handle, and stepped in, giving him a small wave before gently shutting the door. It clicked, and I stared at the white wood. Somewhere, in the region between my legs, my sex drive sobbed in despair. Okay, this was fine. I made it safely to the room, was now alone. Alone. No hot hands ripping at my clothes, his mouth hungry on my neck, his cock pressing against my skin before pushing deep and hard where I was in desperate need of it. Fuck. Somewhere, my brain bumped around and tried to find the place of reason where my decision to not invite him in was a good one. Surely it was the right move. I had maintained my composure. I did not become that girl, the one who allowed horny desire to put her in harm’s way. Despite that man’s gasp-worthy looks, chivalrous actions, and mypantiesarestillwet kissing ability, I didn’t know him. He was a stranger. This was not Quincy, Florida. I did not know his parents, did not grow up sitting next to him on sticky bus seats. I couldn’t invite him in. Shouldn’t. Probably wouldn’t ever. I rose to my tiptoes and looked through the peephole.
He was still there. Staring at the floor, the back of his hand to his mouth. He ran a hand through his hair, slowly, then with rough aggression. Then, he was gone. I looked as far as I could, the peephole giving me a limited view of the world. I wanted to open the door, to peek outside and see him. To see whether he was striding confidently down the hall, or moving hesitantly on to the next part of his night. But I didn’t. I dropped my heels by the door, kicked off the slippers, and took four steps, falling onto the closest bed.