“I can see if Walter from maintenance is available to kick your ass for saying shit like that while standing at the bottom of the staircase from Psycho.”
A door opened and closed at the other end of the hallway and we both jumped.
“Okay, buddy, you’ve got thirty seconds to tell me what this is about or I’m heading back to my room to a bubble bath.”
“Hmm, a bubble bath.”
I punched him in the arm. “Twenty-five seconds.”
He laughed, then yanked on a string. A single bulb shone down, illuminating the staircase and making it a few degrees less creepy. I peered up; the stairs went on at least two stories, maybe more. “Okay, I’ll bite. Where does it lead?”
“Nothing ventured . . .” he said, and started up the stairs. Creepy stairs, or the newly planted mental picture of an ax-wielding Walter?
I followed him. The walls were down to the studs, plaster over wire over brick. The stairs were paneled about halfway up the wall, then open.
All along the paneling were signatures carved into the wood.
Jeremiah, 1897
Bartholomew, 1912
James. Mickey, 1933
George, 1941
Jonathan, 1952
“Who carved all these?” I asked, running my fingers over some of the names. There were other words too, mostly of the limerick variety. There once was a girl from Nantucket . . .
“People who worked here. People who lived here. Did you know back in the thirties they used this part of the hotel to house a boys’ boarding school? It only lasted a decade or so, there are pictures in the library of the bunk beds they installed. In the summer, the boys would sleep out on the balcony, before air-conditioning, of course.”
“A boys’ boarding school,” I mused, reading a poem about a rather busty girl from Tallahassee. “Did you know there are boobs carved into the wood?”
“Boys will be boys,” he muttered, and I rolled my eyes. “That was my favorite panel to look at when I used to come up here.”
“And where is here exactly?” I asked, as we finally reached a landing. The bulb was far below us now.
“Just a few more steps,” he said, turning a corner and disappearing into the darkness.
I stood there, rolling on my ankles when I heard a thunk then a squeak then his voice floating back to me.
“Don’t be chicken.”
“Oh, please,” I said, and marched around the corner into that same darkness.
Cool air swirled around my legs. Silhouetted by moonlight, Archie stood in a doorway that opened up into an inky black sky punctured by twinkling stars. He was on the roof.
“Careful, give me your hand,” he said, helping me over the knee-high ledge that separated the staircase from the roofline.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute, I—”
“Trust me,” he said softly, his hand strong in mine, “I’ve got you.”
I stepped. Out into a different world. Up this high, we could see everything. The entire hotel spread out below us, the golf course, the parking lots, the gardens, everything. The lake was calm tonight, reflecting back a perfect mirror image of the moon and stars, ebony and alabaster and pure magic.
“This is incredible,” I breathed.
“There’s supposed to be another round of meteor showers soon, thought we might catch that show from up here.”
“How cool is this!” I squealed, looking in every direction at once, not wanting to miss a thing. “How close to the edge can we go?”
In response he tugged my hand toward the rock railing that ran along the roofline. I peeked over the edge. On the lakeside, I could see the porches below, all the different levels, and the lanterns that lit the way to the dock. It looked far away but peaceful and somehow comforting.
“Watch where you step, this roof hasn’t been patched in a few years.”
“What?” I yelped, stepping closer to him.
“Kidding, I’m kidding,” he soothed.
I glared up at him. “You’re a bit twisted.”
He gazed down at me, an expression I couldn’t quite identify on his face. “You’re a bit wonderful.”
And in a scene right out of central casting, as I stared up into those warm indigo eyes, a sparkling trail blazed across the sky, arching right over his head with perfect Disney timing.
“The shower is starting up again.”
“Is it?” he said, still gazing down at me.
I gulped. “You’re going to miss it.”
He leaned down, pressing his forehead to mine. “I guess I’ll miss it.”
“But I thought you wanted to—”
“Stop. Arguing. With me.”
I stopped arguing. He started kissing. And it was on.
I slipped my hands up around his neck, and suddenly realized I wanted to be able to feel him, touch him, get a sense of his skin that I just couldn’t with my stupid mittens on. I tore them off, flinging them over my shoulder as I sank my fingers into that ridiculously soft hair of his, never once taking my lips from his, not wanting to break this contact once it had begun.
His hands, meanwhile, had slid around my waist, tugging me closer to him, his fingertips splayed wide around my hips, dipping down lower to my bottom. I sighed into his mouth as one hand slipped up and underneath my shirt, his cold fingers feeling white hot against the small of my back.
“God, you feel amazing,” he groaned, breaking our kiss as he swept kisses along my jawline straight back to my ear. “Your skin . . . I want to . . .”
His mouth was back on mine again, swallowing whatever it was he was going to say and instead tangling his tongue with mine over and over again. His hands pressed me into him farther, and I could feel him, Jesus, I could feel him, thick and hard and oh he was hard and thick, and my eyes rolled back in my head just imagining what it would feel like to fuck this man.
My hands roamed restlessly now, down along his shoulders, along his arms, and back up again. I wanted more. I needed more. Meteors were fucking screaming across the sky and I needed more.
The hand that was under my shirt now slipped higher, moving around front and spanning my rib cage, long and strong fingers playing my skin. His mouth was on the move again as well, back at my ear, whispering, “I want . . . I need . . .”
“What,” I asked, “what do you want?”
He didn’t answer with words. But he did answer. He spun me, pushing me up against one of the chimneys, wrapping one hand around the back of my knee and hitching it around his hip, opening me up to him.
And he thrust against me. Yes. He thrust against me again, his eyes now burning down into mine. Yes, yes.
Wonderful, brilliant friction was building as he pressed into me again and again. Cold brick and stone scratched my back, incredible. Bits of papery soot rained down from above, collecting in our hair, fantastic. My right foot scrambled to find purchase on the gravelly surface, twisting this way and that and even rolling painfully enough once that I knew I’d feel it the next time I tried to run. Fucking awesome. Because while my right foot was rolling, my left foot and all its toes were pointing skyward as oh my God I can’t believe Archie Bryant was dry humping me straight into an insane orgasm.