“Fine.” I sit the phone down and grab my coverup. I pull it on and grab my bag. He’s talking from the chair but I ignore him. He wants to be a baby, I’ll treat him like a baby.
“Brynne!”
“What?” I say, exasperated, jerking the phone to my face. I give him the look I give Presley when I’m trying to study and she won’t leave me alone. The look that says, You’re being stupid and I don’t even want to deal with you. Our eyes lock and a grin tugs at his lips. The lines on his face smooth out, his irritation melting before my eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Get your ass to the room and I’m going to show you just how ridiculous I can be.”
“It’s about fucking time,” I say. “I was starting to think you were all talk and no action.”
“What the . . .” he stumbles, making me laugh.
“I’ll see you in nine.”
“Bry—”
“Eight and a half. Don’t be late,” I wink and end the call. The look on his face, the one of pure bewilderment, is worth whatever he says when we get up there.
An elevator is open and waiting for me, like the heavens above know I need to beat Fenton back to the suite. My sandal-clad feet slap against the floor. Two women dressed like high-end hookers give me disgusted looks and I shoot them my sweetest smile just to piss them off. It works.
I watch the floor numbers change in super slow motion.
My mind is buzzing with possibilities.
My room key card is ready in my hand when I get to the end of the hall and it shakes as I swipe it through the reader and hear the door unlatch.
He’s here.
I can sense him. I can smell the faint scent of his cologne, feel the heaviness of the air when he’s around. The door closes softly behind me, the sound, however faint, still making me jump. I have no idea what I’m walking into, but I know something’s off. Something has him more aggressive than I’ve seen him, and while it’s hotter than hell to see him all worked up, I still have enough sense to play it safe.
Sucking in a deep breath, I tiptoe into the living room and halt as soon as I see him standing in front of the windows. His shoulders are stiff, one arm brings a tumbler to his lips. Dressed in a jet-black suit and tie, he looks like he’s straight out of Central Casting—the dapper, powerful businessman in his high-rise.
I rest my bag on the floor. The towel tucked inside makes it lopsided and it falls to the side. My lip gloss goes tumbling across the tile. Fenton wheels around.
“You’re late,” he says, taking another drink.
“You’re early.” I throw him a shrug and try to downplay that I read his frustration.
“I said twelve minutes.”
“And I found running through the casino and shoving people out of my way to make some insane timeline a little embarrassing. So deal with it.”
He wants to smile. I can tell. But he doesn’t. He takes another drink instead. Pulling the tumbler away from his lips, he narrows his eyes. “Come here.”
It’s a command and one I can’t—and don’t want to—ignore. I sashay across the room and stop a few feet in front of him. He places the glass on the table, his eyes never leaving mine.
My chest rises and falls like crazy, the anticipation of the moment driving me insane. He’s doing what he does—drawing out the excitement. It’s a torturous, potent method and altogether successful.
He takes my hand and instead of pulling me into his arms or into the bedroom, he walks to the windows. A black leather bench is placed in the center of the wall of windows. It hasn’t been there before. Before I can ponder that, he speaks.
“Put your knees on the bench and face the glass.”
“What?” I look at him and his eyes are as calm as I’ve ever seen them.
Instead of answering me, he lifts me up and sits me on the bench. “Hold on.”
My throat is scalding as I pass a swallow. My breathing is hitched as I do as instructed and grab the edge of the leather.
The glass allows me to see his reflection if I look at it the right way. I hear his belt pull from around his waist, the crispness of his jacket as he slips from inside it. Each movement, every sound, heightens my senses, and I can barely take it.
“Fenton . . .” I look at him over my shoulder. He’s naked, his body not just formed, but created. Sculpted. Chiseled to perfection. He’s not overly muscled, but defined in a way that makes me want to touch him, worship him.
He stands behind me, his cock sitting against my ass. I exhale a breath that comes out in a heated gush, the feeling of his hardness against my body leveling me up about six notches. I arch my back, pressing myself against him.
His hand wraps in my hair, tugging my head back. He captures my mouth with his, his tongue stroking mine in long, possessive marks. I moan into his mouth, soaking in every sensation as it comes.
“Face the window,” he orders, his tone soft but unwavering.