Clutching my Chanel briefcase in my right hand, I anxiously pressed the elevator “Down” button several times with the other. I was staying in New York City at The Walden, a recently renovated five-star, twenty-story Park Avenue hotel that dated back to the fifties. Unfortunately, my favorite hotel, The Ritz Carlton, was booked up, so I had decided to give this new, highly-rated venue a chance. So far, I hadn’t been disappointed. The accommodations were outstanding as was the service.
The elevator, to my relief, arrived quickly. I dashed inside the sleek car, which still retained some of its mid-century charm, and hit the “L” button for the lobby. The polished metal doors slid closed. Just before they met in the middle, a manicured masculine hand flashed between them, preventing them from closing.
In a panic, I fumbled to press the "Open” button, fearing that the doors would slam shut on the hand and crush it. I’d seen this uncanny thing happen once before as a child and had never forgotten the gory scene. Flustered, I lost grip of my stuffed briefcase, and it tumbled onto the floor. In my haste to make it to my next meeting on time, I’d forgotten to zip it. This was just not my day. The contents—dozens of photos of gorgeous supermodels clad in skimpy underwear—scattered around my black Louboutin stilettos. Damn it! I just didn’t need this right now. I crouched down to gather up the spillage—no easy task in my tight pencil skirt and six-inch heels. As I began to frantically collect the photos, two loafer-clad feet appeared before my eyes.
“Let me help you.” The voice was virile, velvety, and deep.
Before I could blink an eye, I was facing the intruder who had caused me to drop my briefcase. He had bent down to help me gather the loose photos. Our eyes stayed locked onto one another. Mine shooting daggers his way. His deflecting every one of my visual assaults. Just a palm’s width apart, I felt his warm breath heat my cheeks and could smell a hint of his deliciously spicy cologne. I recognized it immediately. Homme, which means “man” in French. It was part of our newly launched men’s line of fragrances. The perfect gift for a woman to give to her man this coming Valentine’s Day.
I studied his face and what I could glean of his body. Let’s put it this way: I had seen a lot of male models, but this guy was something else. Manly. Built. Mid to late thirties. He was one hundred percent pure gorgeousness with his broad shoulders, intense denim blue eyes, mop of silky chestnut hair, and strong dimpled chin. A fine layer of stubble laced his olive complexion. Along with sockless suede loafers, he was wearing a battered leather bomber jacket over a white cotton tee that showed off his taut chest, and faded designer jeans that revealed a ridge of muscles along his thighs. I assumed his legs were long, but it was hard to tell in his squatting position. What I could tell for sure was that there was a sizeable package between them. My gaze shifted quickly back to the floor.
“Interesting photos,” my companion mused, his eyes lingering on a particularly sexy one of a D-cup model fondling her lace-encased breasts. A wry smile twisted on his lips. “Hmm. I think I fucked her once.” He picked up another. “She looks familiar too.”
“Give me those!” I snatched the photos from him and slipped them into my briefcase.
“Are you a photographer?” he asked, not the least bit intimidated by me.
“Hardly.”
“So, you’re some kind of pervert who collects photos of beautiful semi-naked women with big tits.”
“And you’re some kind of pervert who sleeps with them.” I shot him my dirtiest look and continued collecting the scattered photos. We both reached for the last one, and my hand brushed up against his. God, his hand was beautiful! Large, long-fingered, and so, so soft. Even the violet veins that splayed across them were works of art.
Caught in the moment, I suddenly realized we weren’t moving. The elevator doors were still open. In my flustered state, I’d forgotten to hit the “Close” button.
“Would you mind hitting the “Close” button?” My voice was edgy.
“Good idea. Places to go; people to meet.” He rose to his feet. My eyes roamed up his long, athletic legs. He was easily six foot three. A magnificent pillar of leanness and muscle.
With his long forefinger, he pushed the button, and the doors glided together. The elevator descended, but before I could stand up, it came to a jolting halt. I felt the onset of a mini panic attack. My heart raced and sweat pooled behind my knees. I hated being out of control.
“Are you okay?” asked the mysterious stranger, crouching down again.
I gulped. Unable to find my voice, I nodded like one of those bobble head dolls. The truth: I was losing it, and I wasn’t sure if it was the effect his gorgeousness was having on me or that of the erratic elevator.
He brushed my chin with the edge of my long platinum braid. “Don’t worry. This happens all the time with this elevator.”
Without warning, the elevator jerked and began to free fall. I gasped while the breathtaking man beside me contently grinned.
“Hey, we’re moving again. This is an express elevator, so we’ll be down in no time.”