“I’m walking you.”
And we do. We walk in silence across the parking lot to the front of the hotel. He escorts me to the lighted entrance.
“Let me go in and put the room on our bill for the night.”
“That’s not necessary, but thank you.” I reach out and put my hand on his bicep to stop him. “I’ve already booked it.”
“Then I’ll call my contact and take care of it that way.” He gives me a tight smile and for the first time I can see how tired he is. My first instinct is to reach up and touch his cheek, then I realize how stupid that would be when he’s Zane—untouchable, my boss, a player, and I’m me—too trusting, off-balance, confused.
At least I know he’s not getting any more sleep than I am. This whole co-sleeping in the same bed where I’m trying to not move all night long so I don’t accidently end up cuddling beside him in my sleep is having a similar effect on him as well.
“Thank you, Zane.”
“Let me walk you up to your room?”
“No, I’m fine. This was kind enough.” I look down at my fingers fiddling with the strap of my bag and hate how his very presence is making my nerves dance around.
“I hope you feel better.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
When I look back up, Zane is right there, in my face, seconds before his lips press lightly to my cheek and stay there. “Get a good night’s sleep, Harlow,” he murmurs into my ear.
“Yes.” My voice is breathless. My heart is thumping. “You too.”
It’s only when he gets about ten feet away that I breathe again. His strong back is broad against the night’s darkness. Shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tailored slacks hugging his ass perfectly, the silver of his watch reflecting off the parking lot lights overhead. I watch him walk toward the coach until I can’t see him anymore.
And then I stare after him some more.
This is not good.
Not the sudden butterflies in my belly. Not that burning ache between my thighs. Not me wanting to follow after him.
This isn’t supposed to happen. Me liking him. Me rationalizing to myself why it would be okay to sleep with him. We’re stuck in the same tour bus for weeks on end, after all. Two single, attractive adults. It would just be the natural progression of things.
It’s never a good thing when I begin to justify my actions before I act on them. Or forget the reasons why I’m not supposed to like him—his ego, his mood swings, his privilege.
Never.
And yet I do.
Walk into the hotel, Low. Get your space.
Clear your head.
I COULDN’T FUCKING SLEEP.
It’s not because Harlow wasn’t here. Couldn’t be.
And yet she’s who I’m thinking about as I stand in the shower with my dick in my hand. The hot water. The slick soap. The thought of her sliding over my cock with her fingers pressed against my chest, tits bouncing as she hovers above me, and that soft keening sound coming from the back of her throat like she did when I kissed her the other night.
It’s not what I want—my hand—instead of the heat of her pussy but fuck if I’ll take it because sleeping beside her night after night is enough to test a man.
Even worse, not sleeping beside her last night had me thinking about her nonstop.
Was she really alone or was she putting those condoms she brought to good use?
I push the thought from my mind and focus on her. Her tits. Her ass. Her voice. What I can only imagine she’d feel like.
And when I come with a groan that fills the small bathroom, it’s nowhere near satisfying enough.
At. All.
Christ. This fucking sucks. The thought remains as I scrub a towel through my hair then wrap it around my waist so I can lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling to . . . clear my head? Not think of her? See through the fog of my hangover that lingers from last night, when I perched myself in the hotel bar on the off chance that maybe Harlow was lying to me. That maybe she was meeting up with someone and they’d come to the bar where I was.
Yeah, it’s that bad.
Even worse was the women sidling up beside me at the bar, angling for so much more than the drinks they were hinting at me to buy them. Normally I’d buy, we’d talk, and go from there, but for some reason I really wasn’t interested.
Harlow’s fucking up my mojo and doesn’t even know it.
I groan again and it’s definitely not because I’m coming again thinking of Harlow.
How in the hell did I get in this predicament in the first place? It’s all fucking Kostas’ fault. Isn’t that how it’s always been?
I think back to our trip. To the nights full of friends, alcohol, and maybe a bit of trouble. To the bet we all made.
“I’m bored.”
I look over to Kostas. He’s leaned back in his chair with his shoulder-length hair falling out of its ponytail and onto his face, a litter of empty beer bottles sits before him on the table. He has that look in his eye that tells me he’s looking to start trouble.