“I’m sure that’d be better for you too, right? Not having to explain what we might be up to?”
He paused a beat, then kissed me softly. “If I thought you’d let me, I’d walk you down the center staircase tomorrow morning, with my hands all over you for all the world to see.”
I kissed him back, just as softly. “Impossible.”
He nodded. Pulled his hips back. And entered me with one slow, smooth thrust.
I dropped my head back onto the pillow, a small smile toying at my lips. “I thought you were exhausted?”
“Impossible,” he murmured, drawing back out almost all the way. “What was it you were saying the other day?”
“When?”
“About liking it shallow.”
I felt him move inside me, slow and barely there, drawing it out and making me shiver. “Yeah. Shallow is good.”
Chapter 17
I spent the day working. Working in only the very most literal sense of the word. Because in actuality while I was doing this “work,” I was having a devil of a time getting my mind away from where it wanted to spend its time . . . with Archie. While I was revisiting the finer points of up-selling with the staff in the reservations office, I was really considering the finer points of his ass, and what a fine one it was. Especially when I thought about my hands on it, gripping it as he drove in and out of me, impossibly shallow, impossibly maddening . . . as promised. So when he looked at me across the table during the meeting and asked if I was ready for another round, I spit my coffee, and it was only after he concluded his sentence with the words of cost projections that I managed to recover and get Mrs. Toomey some napkins to clean up the blouse of hers I’d just ruined.
As I went over the books from the spa’s weekend business and saw that not only was my new special a hit, but that the team wanted to keep it going all spring and possibly into the summer, what my mind was actually remembering was Archie’s voice as he spoke low and deep to me in bed the night before, telling me to keep it going, just like that, and don’t you stop and you’re incredible to see when you come. So when he popped in to check on how spa bookings were coming along for the next month and told the ladies who had just finished their mineral bath plunge to make sure they come again soon, I coughed into my hand so hard that one of the attendants actually brought me a bottle of water.
And when the lunch menu featured a sausage bar . . . I turned tail and literally ran, covering my reddened face and struggling to keep the giggles in check. Archie saw me running from the dining room and laughed so loud I could hear him over the din of a hundred guests.
I was giddy. And giddy girls giggle. But they also try very, very hard to get through their working day. Especially when at the end of the day there was something (someone!) waiting for them.
Are you busy tonight?
Depends.
On?
What you’ve got planned for me.
Ice skating.
Oh.
Not a fan?
I was hoping for something a little more . . . horizontal.
That’ll come later.
As long as I do.
Three times, Ms. Morgan . . . three times.
Indeed. So, skating? Isn’t it a bit warm for that?
Indeed. Technically we closed the rink last weekend, but we usually leave it open for a few extra days for the staff.
I smiled in spite of myself. This shouldn’t be so complicated, but it just was.
Not sure it’s such a good idea for us to go skating. Isn’t that a little “public”?
Already thought of that. Last night was the last night for the staff.
And you’re not technically staff, so . . .
So, ice skating? 8 p.m.?
Sure. Then what?
Then the horizontal.
You’ve never seen me skate. It’ll happen sooner than you think.
8 p.m.?
Done. Meet you there, Mr. Bryant.
I’d jogged by the skating rink several times during my stint at Bryant Mountain House, but since it was set back from one of the main lake trails, I’d only gotten a little peek from time to time. With the guest count so low this spring they hadn’t really been keeping it staffed, and I’d yet to hear a single person actually mention that they wanted to go skating. It really was too bad. This place was literally made for winter sports, but with the snowfall less and less every year they just weren’t able to offer the kind of snowshoeing and cross-country skiing they’d been famous for in the good old days.
The good old days. Personally, I’d always known my best days were ahead of me, but not so for most. I’d found many people lost more time revisiting the past than they spent planning their future, whereas I’d always been planning. To get away, to be on my own, to succeed and create the kind of life for myself where I could come to a place like this, stay in the biggest suite they had, order an ice cream sundae at ten thirty in the morning on a Tuesday just because I could and not expect anyone but me to pay for it.
I could too, by the way. I had no life to speak of, but I made a great living. I lived on the road most of the time, free room and board typically, and I’d logged enough frequent-flier miles to fly first class around the world several times over . . . enough for me and a guest, should I so choose.
But I never so choose. I never even got close to so choose. I banked mileage and hotel points like they were going out of style, and I was one of the only people my age I knew who had two years’ worth of salary just sitting in an emergency fund. Like I said, I had no life.
But tonight, I was ice-skating. So I chased away those blue thoughts and filled them instead with auburn, freckly thoughts.
While still chilly enough for an oversized sweater, the air was warmer tonight, which made it nice to leave the coat and scarf behind. I wore my mittens, though, knowing I’d be spending the better part of the evening on the ice rather than gliding effortlessly across it.
There was a dip in the tree line, a narrow muddy trail with a sign marking the left turn to head up to Bryant Rink. They sure liked to put their name on things.
As I got closer, I could hear music. Just before I went around the last bend, there was a rope going across the pathway with a sign that said Closed for the Season.
“Archie?” I called, wondering if I should just head on in.
You should have called him Mr. Bryant, anyone could be in there with him.
Dammit. “Mr. Bryant?” I corrected, trying to see through the trees. And why did that music sound so familiar?