Chapter Five
Whatever
I was in my office at work.
I had taken the morning to fight back the overwhelming craving the promise of seeing Hop that night caused, created a plan to avoid him and put it in action.
Therefore, I had not hung at home or at Tyra’s, went out to get a pedicure, or done anything I normally did on a Saturday.
I had bought a big sub, a bag of chips, a six pack of diet cherry 7Up and a huge chocolate chip cookie, and went to my office in downtown Denver. I picked my office as shelter from the storm because I had a strict rule that I didn’t work weekends. My weeknights might end at nine, ten, even ten–thirty, but my weekends were my own so no one would think I’d be there. I also picked my office because it had a good security system, the kind where you could arm the door but move around the offices without tripping it.
In other words, no one could breach my sanctuary without me knowing it.
I had also packed a bag and made a reservation at Hotel Monaco for two nights. I’d always wanted to stay there even though it was located in the same city where I lived. I often thought of booking a weekend, getting away, doing nothing but being in a cool hotel in the heart of a beautiful city and just vegging. I’d just never found the time.
To escape Hop, I decided now was the time.
So my overnight bag was on the floor beside the couch in my office and I was seeing the silver lining of the situation.
I was getting my shot at Hotel Monaco and I’d been at the office for five hours. Five hours without the phone ringing, emails coming through, or any of my ten employees walking into my office. This meant I got to do things I never did, like clean up my email inbox, tidy my desk, organize my files and concentrate on work without distractions. This also meant I did ten hours of work in that five hours and not only would I hit my organized desk on Monday, I’d do it ahead of the game.
I thought this was fabulous. The first hint of fabulousness I’d had in weeks.
No, months.
No, years.
And this was the thought I was having when I heard the warning beep of the security system that said the door was opened and you had a minute to put in the code or the call was going to Dispatch.
My body jerked, my eyes went to the wall of windows that looked into the interior office, and my mouth dropped open.
Hop, in deliciously faded jeans, his black motorcycle boots, his black leather cut with his hair falling appealingly in his face, and his jaw not shaved since that morning, was just inside my office. He was carrying a white plastic bag that looked like it held Chinese food containers.
He was also with a Native American man who had his gorgeous, glossy black hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape. The guy was standing at my beeping security console.
Without me telling them to do so, my feet pushed back my chair, my body straightened from it and, woodenly, I walked across my office to come to a halt just inside the door.
Hop watched me do this. When I stopped, he called casually, “Hey, babe.”
I stared at him, then my eyes drifted to the Native American guy who was working at the wires he’d pulled out of my console. The beeping stopped. He twisted his neck and took me in then aimed a slow, shit-eating, unbelievably sexy grin at me.
A shiver shook me from top-to-toe; his grin was that good. Not to mention, he was shockingly handsome. He also had a very wide, gleaming gold wedding band on his finger, beaming so bright against his luscious brown skin, I could see it from across the interior office.
“Yo,” he called.
“Uh…” I mumbled.
His shit-eating grin got bigger and sexier.
A tremor shook me.
“This is Vance Crowe,” Hop introduced, jerking a thumb at Vance and telling me something I already knew.
Vance Crowe worked for Lee Nightingale of Nightingale Investigations. He was famous. All the Nightingale men were famous. This was because newspaper articles and books were written about them. And newspaper articles and books were written about them because they were all talented private investigators who had a knack for the business and a way of finding trouble. Bad trouble. And that trouble usually had to do with a fantastically beautiful damsel in distress who would, in the end, find herself married to one of the Nightingale men.
I looked back at Vance to see my console again looked normal with no wires hanging out and he was turned to me.
“Manual override,” he stated, “Very manual,” he went on. “It’s good now. When you leave, just set it like normal.”
I blinked.
Vance turned to Hop. “Later, man.”
Hop stuck out a hand and they did a complicated, jerky, manly, completely cool and weirdly hot handshake as Hop stated, “Marker.”
“You got it,” Vance replied as they broke contact. “I need you, I’ll call.”
“Right,” Hop said, jerking up his chin.
Vance jerked up his, turned to me, and gave me another grin. I got a chin jerk then he turned and disappeared through my door.
Hop moved to it, locked it and then turned to me.
He started talking as he walked toward me.
“Took some work, had to ask around and be cool about it but got it from Big Petey. Kung pao shrimp.”
I blinked again.
Hop made it to me, shifted slightly sideways and either by necessity or design his hard body brushed mine as he moved by me and into my office.
Again woodenly, I pivoted to see Hop looking around as he walked to my desk and dumped the bag on it.
He turned to look back at me. “Cush, babe.”
I didn’t look at my button-backed white leather couch against the wall. The high-backed white leather executive chair behind my sleek, modern but feminine glass-and-chrome desk. My all-in-one, huge-screened computer. The white leather chairs in front of my desk. The thick rug on the floor with its stark graphic design in white, black, hot pink, and tangerine. Or the fabulous art deco prints on the wall.
I stared at him.
He looked back to the bag and started to unearth white containers with red Asian designs on their sides, muttering, “Expected nothin’ less.”
“What just happened?” I asked.
He twisted his neck to look at me, his hand wrapped around paper-bound chopsticks. “Crowe’s good at bypassing security systems.”
“What just happened?” I repeated.
Hop straightened to full height and turned to me, whereupon he explained more fully, “Lookin’ for you so I could bring you dinner, saw your car in the underground garage. Came up. Saw the security console through your door, you at your desk. Console stated security was engaged. Called Crowe. Did some snooping. Found out you liked kung pao shrimp. Ordered it. Got it. Met Crowe here. I picked the lock. Crowe bypassed your system. Now we’re eatin’ while you finish up and shut down then we’re goin’ to my place to watch some TV and spend the night.”
There was a lot there so I started at the top.
“I didn’t see you come up.” I motioned to the wall of windows beside me that had a straight view to the front doors, which were also a wall of windows.
“I didn’t want to be seen,” he informed me.
I went back to staring at him, forgetting about the rest of what we needed to go over.
He went back to the food. Placing my container in front of my chair, he took his, sat in one of my sleek white leather chairs, shifted low, leaned back and lifted his motorcycle boots to my desk, ankles crossed.
He then commenced eating.
At this point, I remembered what we needed to go over, prioritized quickly and announced, “I’m not eating dinner with you.”
“It’s Imperial,” he replied.
Damn.
Imperial kung pao shrimp was the best and I was hungry. I’d had a big lunch but that was five hours ago.
And anyway, what would he do with that food if I didn’t eat it? Would it go to waste?
Sacrilege.
Okay, maybe I was going to eat.
Moving on.
“I’m not going to your place to watch TV and definitely I’m not spending the night,” I declared.
“Okay, we’ll go to yours,” he returned.
“We’re not doing that either.”
His eyes hit my overnight bag then came back to me while I tried to ignore the smell of delicious Chinese food filling the air.
“Where we goin’?” Hop asked.
“Where I’m going is none of your business,” I answered.
He grinned, clamped his chopsticks around some noodles and shoved them in his mouth, eyes on me, the grin never leaving his face.
I watched this thinking it stunk that even watching him eat was somehow sexy. Then I moved to thinking it stunk that seeing him slouched in my sleek white leather chair with his feet on my desk was also sexy. He was all hot biker in leather and faded denim, stubble, unruly hair. My office was all pristine, clean edges, glass, chrome, and splashes of bright colors. He didn’t fit. His presence there, regardless of his casual pose, was an invasion and I’d discovered weeks ago I liked all the ways Hop could invade.
Just then, I discovered this kind of invasion was included.
He was not of my life, my work, my home. He came from a life that was wild and free. Where it was okay not to shave or get regular haircuts. Where you didn’t throw away supremely faded jeans; you wore them because they were fabulous. Where you casually broke in somewhere you wanted to be, bringing along your buddy who could adeptly, if feloniously, disarm security systems.
Where rules didn’t apply, only feelings did.
You went with your gut, you led with your heart, you did what you wanted and you didn’t think of consequences.
You lived.
You were free.
Yes, Hop invading my office bringing Chinese food brought all this to me.
And I liked it.
I shook these thoughts off and realized he hadn’t replied.
“Hop—” I started but he swallowed and interrupted me.
“Sit down, Lanie, and eat. It’s getting cold.”
I took two steps into the room, stopped and said quietly but firmly, “I don’t have the energy to spar with you tonight. I’ve been working for five hours and although not physically taxing, it’s been mentally draining. I just want a quiet night.” I shook my head and amended, “No, I need a quiet night.”
“Then it’s good we’re just gonna watch TV. And when I f*ck you later, you’re golden. I’ll do all the work.”
That got me another shiver even as I felt my palms start to itch.
God! He had an answer for everything.
I didn’t know what to do. I had not one idea how to get him to leave me be. What I did have an idea about was that I refused to consider the fact that I didn’t want him to let me be.
It was then I decided I should eat. Brain food. If I had Imperial kung pao shrimp, I was certain my mental juices would start flowing and something would come to me.
Putting this plan into action, but deciding to do it with extreme ill-grace, I stomped around my desk in order to get to my food.
Unfortunately, Hop felt like providing a commentary as I did this and, equally unfortunately, I liked what he said or, more accurately, muttered.
“Christ, a Saturday, alone in an office for hours. Still she looks f*ckin’ spectacular.”
I drew in a deep breath, sat in my chair, successfully ignored how his words affected me and glared at him.
Another thing my mother ingrained in me, which was incidentally one of the few things, like knowing how to cook, that she taught me that I liked, was that I never should look bad.
Even if I was dinking around at home, I didn’t do it in ratty sweats and old t-shirts. I might not do full-on makeup, perfume and overly styled hair, but I was never, not ever, a slob. I had knockabout clothes but they were fashionable loungewear like comfortable yoga pants, hoodies, wraps and stylishly cut tees.
If I was going to step foot out of my house, although on occasion my loungewear worked, normally I ratcheted up the effort.
Like today. I had on a pair of bootcut jeans that I knew did miracles for my ass, which wasn’t, like Ty-Ty’s, something to write home about. Purple leather platform, spike-heeled booties that skimmed the bottom of my ankle and had a saucy, silver zip at the side (these also did miracles for my ass). And a thin weave, soft wool, silvery sweater that was slightly see-through, showing my lilac cami underneath, and it had an intriguing drapey neckline that was close to my neck on one side but went wide on the other, exposing goodly amounts of shoulder and half my collarbone.
I was reconsidering this life rule and making plans to troll Goodwill stores for stained, used sweatpants and sweatshirts, trying to contain the queasiness this thought was giving me as I opened up my food and the scent of sublime Imperial kung pao shrimp hit my nostrils.
Heaven in a Chinese food container.
I totally forgot about my Goodwill plans and snatched up the chopsticks. When my cell on my desk rang, I was so distracted by my watering mouth and a mind way too filled with garbage that I stupidly picked it up, hit the button, and put it to my ear. I did this, one, without reading the display and two, without thinking about the fact that Hop was sitting right across from me.
“Hello,” I greeted.
“Lanie, darling! Guess what?”
Mom.
Mom sounding excited, which was never good. You’d think it would be but it never, ever was.
Mom on my phone with me in my office with Imperial kung pao shrimp, one of my drugs of choice, and Hopper Kincaid, another one, Hop being the drug that was harder to beat.
Why me?
My eyes went to Hop to find his eyes curious and warm on me.
He had great eyes.
Gah!
Everything that was happening crashing over me, my forehead went to the edge of my desk, where I pounded it repeatedly.
“Lanie?” Mom called into my ear.
“Babe, Jesus, stop doin’ that,” Hop called across my desk.
Silence from Mom but as for me, my entire body went still, which fortunately meant I quit banging my head on my desk.
“Lanie, baby girl, are you with a man?” Mom asked, sounding breathy, which meant even more excited.
Damn!
I started banging my forehead on my desk again.
“Lanie, seriously, stop f*ckin’ doin’ that,” Hop ordered, closer, like he was leaning across my desk, and also sharper, kind of like a gentle bark.
“Oh my goodness, Lanie! Are you there? What’s going on? Why aren’t you speaking? Are you out on a date?” Mom asked, and I shot up to sitting in my chair.
When I did, I saw Hop did not have his feet on my desk. He was out of his chair, leaned across the desk toward me. His food container was set aside, one of his rough, callused, beautiful, strong, intensely masculine hands planted in the middle of my desk. His eyes were intent on me.
“Lanie! Are you there?” Mom called, beginning to sound panicked.
“I’m here, Mom, and I’m not out on a date,” I finally replied.
Hop held my eyes.
Mom said nothing for a few moments, then, “All right, then who’s that man I hear?”
“No one,” I told her.
Quiet from Mom again until, “Uh, whoever that no one is, he has a nice voice.”
He did. It was deep, slightly rough, mostly smooth, and this might sound impossible but it absolutely wasn’t. It could get rougher or smoother, depending. For instance, it got smoother when he was doing something to me. It got rougher when I was doing something to him.
“Though,” she continued, luckily breaking me out of these heated thoughts, “it’s rude to use the f-word. If he’s an acquaintance of yours, you should find a quiet moment to tell him that.”
Argh.
I pulled in breath, tearing my eyes from Hop’s, I turned slightly in my chair and said, “Listen, Mom, I’m at work, getting a few things sorted. My mind was occupied when I picked up. Sorry. What’s up?”
“Oh, okay, darling,” she murmured then, back to excitement, “Guess what?”
I didn’t want to guess because I knew whatever “what” was was not going to be good for me.
With no choice I asked, “What?”
Mom didn’t make me work for it. She never did. She didn’t have patience for that kind of thing. If she was hepped up about something, she let it rip.
Something else, alas, she’d given to me.
“Your Dad and I are coming out next weekend!” she cried with glee.
Oh God.
Oh no.
Oh hell.
Damn!
This was not happening!
Thinking quickly and thus stupidly, I rushed out, “You can’t do that. I’m having my house fumigated next weekend.”
“Oh my Lord!” Mom exclaimed in horror. “Do you have an infestation?”
No, I did not. In fact, I wasn’t even certain what fumigation was since I’d never had to have it done so, in desperation, I turned to my computer, grabbed the mouse and hit the icon to load Explorer in order to look it up.
“Uh…” I mumbled, stalling for time, trying to ignore the feel of Hop’s eyes on me. I knew he’d moved away and sat back down but I refused to look at him as I tapped frantically on my keyboard.
“That’s terrible, darling,” Mom’s voice came in my ear. “Hold on, let me talk to your father. We’ll come up with something.”
That was what I was afraid of as I quickly read that yes, indeed, fumigation was a means of controlling pests.
Ugh.
Well, the good news was, this wasn’t a total lie considering, if Hop didn’t leave me alone by next weekend, I would need a fumigation. But I didn’t think there were companies that had chemicals that could keep handsome badass bikers at bay.
I sat back in defeat in my chair, avoiding Hop’s gaze by turning mine to the ceiling.
Not long after I began my contemplation of the ceiling tiles, Dad’s voice sounded in my ear. “Lanie, honey, what’s this about an infestation?”
I moved my eyes to my shrimp. “It isn’t as bad as it sounds, Dad. I just can’t have visitors next weekend.”
“That’s outrageous,” he declared pompously. “That brownstone is in an excellent neighborhood, sound construction, premier carpentry. How on earth did this happen?”
He would know all that. He’d insisted I accept the healthy down payment that made my mortgage affordable on a home I would never have been able to afford on my own.
No way his daughter was residing in anything but the absolute best.
With bad timing, this brought to mind the fact that I had also allowed Elliott to take the unprecedented stand that we were going to pay for our wedding. He knew how I felt about Dad’s guilty generosity so he put his foot down that we were going to have the wedding we wanted and we were going to pay for it.
This had a variety of disastrous results. The first being Dad, who had no respect for Elliott, getting some.
“Didn’t know the boy had it in him,” Dad had mumbled with surprised admiration.
It also meant that when Elliott made a bad investment and lost everything, he had to turn to the Russian Mob to give me the wedding of my dreams.
On me.
That was on me.
Everything was f*cking on me.
“Well, it’s good we’re coming out then,” Dad stated and I blinked. With my mind jumping all over the place, I was not keeping up and I was also wondering how anything was good. “I’ll talk to the Roths. They have a condo in Vail. I’ll see if it’s open this weekend.”
“Dad—” I began but it was like I didn’t speak.
“We’ll arrange a limo to come get you, bring you to the airport. I’ll rent an SUV and we’ll drive up. That way the Lexus can stay safe in your garage.”
“Dad—” I tried again.
“We get in Friday afternoon and leave Sunday evening, last flight out. A nice long visit.”
“Dad—”
“I’ll have my secretary email you the details.”
“Dad!” I called.
Again, he did not hear me or chose not to.
“Now, your mother says you’re at work so we’ll leave you be. You’ll get an email Monday. See you next weekend, honey.”
“Dad, I can’t—”
“I’ll tell your mother you said good-bye. Love you, Lanie.”
Then he was gone.
As you can see, this was precisely how I never managed to manage my parents.
I stared at my phone screen, which announced the call had ended.
I put it down and stared at Hop.
Then I asked accusatorily, “Why didn’t you do something?”
His brows shot up as he asked back, “Come again?”
“Throw my computer through the window. Trip the fire alarm. Something!”
My voice was rising and, yes, it was with hysteria, but my parents were coming for the weekend.
He studied me and his lips curved up. “I’m sensing you’re not close with your parents.”
“Wrong!” I snapped. “I am. I just don’t want to be.”
His lip curve faded and he continued studying me, but now with his warm intensity and he also ordered, “Talk to me.”
In the throes of a drama, I didn’t hesitate.
In the throes of a drama, I never hesitated.
This was one thing, amongst many, that I really needed to work on.
I just had no intention of doing it right then.
“I’m spending next weekend with my mom and dad in Vail while my house is not getting fumigated.”
“And this is bad because…?” he prompted when I said no more.
I held his eyes.
Then I socked it to him.
“This is bad because my mother is an alcoholic.”
His warm, intent eyes got soft as he drew in a quiet breath.
Then he let it out, murmuring, “Lady.”
“It’ll be okay. Totally fine. She’ll drink wine with dinner. More than Dad and me but she won’t get hammered. No, she’ll say she’s going to bed with a book, having sneaked a bottle or two or four up to their room. Dad will stay with me and we’ll both ignore the fact she’s up there reading at the same time getting sloshed, and I’ll go to bed knowing Dad is staying up later, waiting for her to finish up by passing out. This means the entire weekend will be a lie. This means all of us will spend it dancing around the dysfunction, something we always do, something I find seriously un-fun at the same time emotionally exhausting. They’ll leave. I’ll call my sister Elissa to vent. She’ll lecture me on how I should cut them out of my life like she has because this is insanity. Even though she is absolutely right, I won’t listen to her like I never do, and then it starts up all over again because now they only have one daughter and thus only one daughter’s life to make a misery.”
To that, instantly, Hop decreed, “Me and the kids are coming up to Vail next weekend.”
I felt my eyes bug out as my lungs seized.
Was he crazy?
I knew he had two kids and I knew his kids. They came to the Compound all the time.
Molly, his eleven-year-old daughter, was the female epitome of her dad. Black hair. Gray eyes. Long, lean body. Easy, bright smile. She was a good kid. Funny, sweet. A little weirdly watchful, though very loving, of her dad, but I figured kids from broken homes could be that way.
Cody, his nine-year-old son, was not the epitome of his dad, and I always found that strange. Hop had clearly dominant traits that not only personality-wise but scientifically should naturally come out on top hereditarily. But Cody was sandy-haired, blue-eyed, and although he was tall and lean, his body somehow didn’t fit the shape of his dad’s. He was gangly in a way you knew he’d never stop being gangly. Hop was not at all gangly.
He was also a good kid, funny and sweet and loving of his dad.
They were all tight and, if I would admit it to myself (which I wouldn’t), I’d always loved watching him with his kids. They were loving of him and he returned it in spades.
But Cody, maybe being younger, maybe being a boy and not as sensitive, didn’t seem watchful of his dad like Molly was.
Cody also didn’t look like Mitzi, Hop’s ex. Or maybe he did since she had platinum hair that was not handed to her by God but she also had green eyes, a tough demeanor that didn’t invite approach and she was buxom but petite.
Paying attention to Hop over the years, although I was not around when they were together or when they fell apart. There was always talk amongst family. Chaos was family, so I heard this talk. Further, since they shared kids, I’d seen her at the Compound. She didn’t come to party or hang out but she sometimes came there to pick up her kids.
I knew she was not well-liked by the brothers. I also knew that their break was ugly, as in extremely ugly, though I didn’t know the details. I just knew she didn’t get a lot of love when she showed. Even Sheila, who was really sweet, didn’t have anything good to say about her. The murmurings were there, the detail wasn’t, and if I pressed for it I feared it would expose my interest in Hop so I hadn’t.
Hop declaring he and his kids would meet me in Vail when I was with my parents could not happen for so many reasons that it was impossible to relay them all.
It just couldn’t happen.
“That isn’t going to happen,” I told him.
“It is,” he told me.
Here we go again.
I leaned toward him. “Hop, that isn’t going to happen.”
He leaned toward me. “Lanie, it is.” I opened my mouth to say something but he beat me to it. “I’m not talkin’ about showin’ and broadcasting to my kids or your folks how we tear each other up. I’m talkin’ about givin’ my kids a good weekend in the mountains. They love the mountains. They know you. They like you. And us bein’ there and wrangling a meet gives you a break from that shit with your parents.”
Under normal circumstances, this would be nice and I’d latch onto it like a sucker fish to the side of an aquarium.
Obviously, in these abnormal circumstances, it wasn’t.
“Hop, no offense and you know I don’t share these sentiments, but my father’s the president of a bank that has forty branches. My mother is a banker’s wife. They live in Connecticut. They belong to a country club. They own a fabulous condominium on the beach in Florida. They vote Republican. My dad has pictures of him shaking hands with Senators and Congressmen on the wall in his den. My mother owns nothing that contains even a hint of synthetic fibers. She also has seventeen pearl necklaces and two drawers filled with scarves. In other words, they are not biker friendly.”
“Lady, to live the life I chose, I can’t spend it giving a f*ck who is and who is not biker friendly,” Hop returned immediately. “They got a problem with my lifestyle, it’s theirs. Not mine.”
“I understand that,” I shot back. “But can you understand, you show up, how that would be my problem?”
“You’re with me, you gotta learn to make it not yours, either.”
God! Seriously?
I threw up my hands. “Hop, I’m not with you!” I cried.
“I broke into your office fifteen minutes ago, baby. Did you call the cops?” he asked.
“Of course not, you’re Chaos. You’re family,” I snapped. It just came out and it was true but it was stupid and I knew that when his eyes warmed on me again.
“You kissed me last night. You remember that?” he asked, his voice quieter and gentler.
I sighed.
I remembered.
I did it to shut him up but I chose kissing him, not pushing him away, not screaming bloody murder, not kicking him in the shin.
I kissed him and even I couldn’t deny or shove in the back of my head why I did.
“Cody, Molly and me’ll be up in Vail next weekend,” Hop concluded our discussion.
His words were still gentle but also very firm.
Too firm.
I didn’t have it in me to butt up against his firm.
So I gave up.
“Whatever,” I muttered, rolling toward my desk and, more importantly, my food.
“Now, babe, where we spendin’ the night tonight?”
I ripped the paper off my chopsticks, eyes on my food, mouth stupidly moving. “Hotel Monaco.”
“Class,” he murmured and I lifted my eyes to him. “Nice,” he finished.
I looked back at my food and shoved the chopsticks in, repeating on a mutter, “Whatever.”
I successfully clamped down on a big, juicy, butterflied shrimp and brought it to my mouth.
Miraculously, it was still warm and, as usual, delicious.
“Lady.” Automatically, my eyes moved to Hop at his soft call. “Next weekend, it starts.”
I didn’t want to know.
My mouth did. I knew this when it swallowed and then asked, “What?”
“You gettin’ to know your shield.”
My breath caught, my throat closed, and my heart started beating hard.
Hop wasn’t done.
“Nothin’ f*cks with you, even your parents. You take a chance on me, you’ll learn, starting next weekend, you breathe easy.”
“You don’t know them,” I told him softly.
“I don’t care about them. I care about you.”
At that, my heart accelerated so much I felt it beat in my neck.
“Hop—” I whispered.
“Eat,” he ordered, dipping his head to my food. “Do it closin’ down your machine and gettin’ ready to leave. My lady’s tired. Gotta get her somewhere she can relax.”
I felt the pulse pounding in my neck and it took the rest of the minimal amount of energy I had left to beat back tears.
I won the fight and bent back to my food.
Tomorrow, I’d fight again. Tomorrow, I’d form a plan.
I swallowed delicious kung pao shrimp, my favorite, my favorite that Hop had made an effort to discover was my favorite, buy and bring to me.
I shoved those thoughts into the back of my head and snatched up another shrimp thinking, tonight…
Whatever.
* * *
I was doing all the work.
My choice, I climbed on top.
But I was doing it slowly, taking my time, gliding up, sliding down, my head tipped to his, my eyes locked to his, not him making me, me taking him in every way I knew how.
My hands were at his head, pulling back his hair, my thumbs sliding along the sides of his mustache, bending slightly to touch my mouth to his or the tip of my tongue to his.
Taking him in.
“Faster, baby,” he murmured against my lips.
I ignored him and kept my rhythm slow, steady, taking him in, letting him feed me.
His hands gripped my hips. “Faster, Lanie.”
I dipped my head at a slant, ran my tongue along the side of his ’tache, feeling the bristle of stubble, loving the feel, continuing to ride him the way I wanted to take him inside of me.
When it was time, he would take over. I knew it. When he was done with me taking, he’d take over and give it to me.
I was right and I knew it was coming when he slid a hand up my spine, into my hair and he brought my mouth to his.
“Sorry, lady. Can’t take more,” he whispered then flipped me to my back, shoved his face in my neck and rode me, fast, his hips pounding, his hands gliding up the outside of my thighs. Fingers hooking behind my knees, he jerked them high and drove in deep.
A moan tore up my throat and his head came up, his eyes searing into mine.
“You want my thumb?” he asked.
I gave a slight shake of my head. “Just your cock.”
“You got it, baby,” he growled, thrusting hard, deep.
“Hop,” I breathed. It was building, burning high, feeding the need.
I pressed my legs to his sides, one of his hands moved to the side of my neck, curving around, gripping then down, curling around my breast. His thumb and forefinger closed on my nipple, squeezed then pulled and that was it. He filled me to bursting as I exploded.
My hips came up, my lips parted and Hop’s came to them, his eyes holding mine, his tongue gliding in my mouth as my orgasm burned through me.
The burn continued as his thumb and finger released my nipple but his hand stayed curled warm and claiming on my breast and his tongue moved out of my mouth to trace my lower lip.
“I love that,” I gasped.
“I know you do, baby. I do too,” he murmured against my mouth.
My hands slid up his back into his hair and, coming down, controlled by the beauty, I repeated, “Love that.”
“Me too, baby,” he grunted, powering in, powering deep, continuing to fill me, feed me, give me what I needed. “I’m there. Tighten, Lanie,” he growled his order and I gave him what he wanted, flexing around his cock. He shoved his face in my neck, buried himself deep and groaned against my skin.
I loved that too.
I kept my legs tight to his sides, sifted my fingers through his thick waves and waited.
Hop, not one to disappoint, ever, gave it to me. Back to front, he gave me the burn then the crash as his whiskers tickled me and his mouth moved on me.
I loved that too.
I closed my eyes, turned my head slightly and rested my lips against his ear, doing nothing but that, smelling him, feeling him, connected to him.
Still feeding the need. Like a junkie, powerless against the pull.
His lips trailed up to mine, his mouth took mine in a soft, long, wet kiss, then he slanted his head, kissed my jaw and slowly slid out. He rolled off, I rolled to my side, and he pulled the covers over me, shoving a pillow under my head, shifting my hair off my neck.
“Be back,” he muttered.
I slid my eyeballs up to him sitting on the side of the bed and nodded, then watched him walk to the bathroom.
He disappeared. I studied the fabulous décor of Hotel Monaco, which was just like all the pictures on their website said it was cracked up to be.
I did not think about relaxing with Hop in a hotel room that was supposed to be mine but he made ours.
I did not think about ending up making love with him in the bed in that room.
I didn’t think of anything.
He came out of the bathroom, turned out the lights, and slid in bed beside me.
Only after he arranged me pressed tight to his side and partially draped on his front, his arm tight around me, his other arm crossing his chest to sift through the side of my hair and along the length of my back, did I think about something.
“Hop, will you listen to me?” I whispered to his chest, a chest I was cuddling.
“Yeah, lady.”
“This has to end,” I told him honestly but insanely, considering I was cuddling him after having sex with him. “For me.”
His hand in my hair stilled before his body turned into mine, his hand going to the back of my head, cupping me there and pressing my face to his throat as his other arm held me close.
“This has to keep goin’,” he replied, both his hand and arm giving me a squeeze. “For you, lady.”
I closed my eyes tight and felt Hop’s lips come to the top of my hair.
“Got a monster to beat,” he murmured there.
I opened my eyes and admitted, “It lives in me, Hopper. I know it. It can’t be beat.”
His hand moved as his body shifted slightly and I found my cheek pressed to his chest.
In this position, held close to his long, hard, warm frame, I heard him whisper, “We’ll see.”
I closed my eyes again.
Kung pao shrimp.
I sighed.
Tomorrow, I’d plan.
My body, powerless against Hop’s pull, pressed closer.
Tonight…
Whatever.