“You look distracted. Anything I can help you with?”
The voice belongs to a nice-looking man who sits one seat over from me at the bar. I finally see Damien, and am about to tell the man that no, I’m fine, when Damien meets my eyes, then very deliberately takes a seat at a nearby table with three other men.
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
The bartender puts the martini in front of me. I take a sip, confused, and wonder what happens next.
The man moves to the stool next to me, then leans even closer into my personal space. I consider sliding one stool over myself, but decide to remain put, my posture rigid, my body language very, very clear.
Apparently, though, the guy is illiterate in the body language department.
“Here for the conference?” he asks, and I can smell the liquor on his breath.
“No,” I say. “I’m looking for some time alone.”
“Lucky you,” says the man who cannot take a hint. “Insurance regulations. Hours and hours of continuing education.”
“Hmm,” I say. I have my Coldly Polite face on, but he’s apparently blind as well.
He leans in closer still, and now he’s at such an angle that he has to grip the bar itself or risk sliding to the floor. I give in to temptation and lean in the opposite direction. “I can think of better ways to spend a late night,” he says, his voice low and his intent unmistakable. “And we are in a hotel. You do the math.”
“I was never particularly good at math,” I lie. I consider moving to a table, but Damien specifically told me to stay at the bar. And no matter what else, I am following his rules tonight.
“You look like you’d be good at a lot of things,” the man says, staring at my tits.
I turn back to the bar to find the bartender sliding a new martini in front of me. “From the gentleman,” he says, nodding toward Damien.
“How nice,” I say, then smile at Damien, which seems to irritate my companion.
Damien rises, says something to the men at his table, and strides to the bar. He stands right beside me, and as is always the case when Damien is near, I am suddenly hyperaware—of him, of my own body, of the rotation of the earth beneath us.
I smile at him. “Thank you for the drink. Sir.”
I see the muscle in his cheek tighten when I say the last word, and I have to smile. He wasn’t expecting that. “I hope you like dirty martinis.”
“The dirtier the better,” I say.
“Hey. You want to get lost? I was chatting with the lady.”
Damien turns to him. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so. I want her.”
The guy’s eyes go wide, but he recovers fast. “The lady wants to be alone.” Apparently, he’s now all about chivalry.
“Does she?” He looks at me, then speaks very slowly and very clearly. “Did you come here to be alone? Or to be fucked?”
“I—” I have no idea how I’m supposed to answer. Beside us, the guy is apparently shocked into silence. “I guess that depends on who’s doing the fucking,” I finally say.
“I like your answer,” Damien says. “What’s your name?”
“Louise,” I say, my middle name coming unbidden to my lips.
Damien grins. “Nice to meet you, Louise. I want you to come with me now.”
I gasp, embarrassed, but also incredibly, undeniably turned on. “I—”
“Now.” He holds out his hand and I hesitate only a moment before taking it.
Beside us, my companion stares with his mouth gaping open.
Damien helps me off the stool and aims a friendly nod at the insurance dude. “Maybe next time,” he says, as the guy looks at Damien as if he’s pulled off some kind of magic act. At least we’re leaving him impressed and not pissed.
I am giddy as I follow Damien. I want to laugh. I want to take his hand and twirl in the lobby. I want to slam him hard against the lobby wall and claim his mouth with my own. I want his hands on me. I want him inside me.
I want him to fuck me, just like he said. And I want it now.
Apparently, so does Damien. As soon as the doors close on the elevator, Damien backs me against the wall. His mouth is hard against mine, his hand under my skirt, two fingers inside me. I grind my hips against him, wanting him, craving more of him than I can get in an elevator.
“God, Louise,” he says, and we both laugh.
“I thought someone might recognize us. It’s my middle name.”
“I know,” he says. “And I think they were all too tipsy to care. And too out of town.”
“Could have been some paparazzi around.”
“Fuck the paparazzi,” Damien says, his words as harsh as sandpaper.
I ease my body against his. “I’d rather fuck you.”
He kisses me again. Hard.
“That man was very disappointed,” I say, when he breaks the kiss.