He takes another step back, rubs his mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
I’m not. I blush. “It’s fine. I didn’t exactly stop you.” I push off the wall, trusting my feet to hold me. I must move away. I want him so badly. What am I doing? My new slippers move me silently forward. Beside me, his hands disappear inside his pockets, his head cast down. I stop in front of my room, take a steadying breath, and turn to him. “This is it. Thank you.”
His right hand is outstretched, fist closed. I stare at it in confusion before I realize what he’s doing. I give him an exasperated smile and hold my hands out together, cupped beneath his fist, the chips falling into my palms with a dull clink. “I wanted to pay you for the slippers.”
He chews on his lip again, the move an apparent habit, and stares at me as if sorting out something in his mind. Silence draws out, thickness in the air between us. God, I want to suck on that lip. Grab it between my teeth and suck. I fight the urge to squirm, the need between my legs crawling up my stomach and dragging on my breasts with its want.
He finally speaks, breaking our eye contact as he looks away. “I don’t want your money. It was my pleasure.”
I feel ridiculous, both of my hands closed around the chips. Like I am a Chinese doll ready to bow in respect. He doesn’t seem pushy about coming in, my fears of wanton sluthood unnecessary given his six-foot proximity from my body. I shoulder my purse open and dump the chips, fishing out my room key. I look down at my feet. “Want the slippers? You could run back down. Do this whole bit again on a new victim of poor fashion decisions.”
“Nah.” He leans one hand against the wall, the action bringing him a foot closer, still a safe distance away. “I’ll end the night while I’m up.” He pushes off the wall, holds out his hand, that gorgeous mouth stretching into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Riley.”
“Back ‘atcha Brett.” I shake his hand, releasing it quickly. Either I am imagining it, and am in serious danger of embarrassing the hell outta myself, or we are one slip away from headboard-banging a hole through to the next room.
I insert the key, push down the handle, and step in, giving him a small wave before gently shutting the door. It clicks, and I stare at the white wood. Somewhere, in the region between my legs, my sex drive sobs in despair. Okay, this is fine. I made it safely to the room, am now alone. Alone. No hot hands ripping at my clothes, his mouth hungry on my neck, his cock pressing against my skin before pushing deep and hard where I am in desperate need of it. Fuck. Somewhere, my brain bumps around and tries to find the place of reason where my decision is a good one. Surely this is the right move. I have retained my composure. I did not become that girl, the one who allowed horny desire to put her in harm’s way. Despite that man’s panty-dropping looks, chivalrous actions, and mypantiesarestillwet kissing ability, I don’t know him, he is a stranger. This is not Macon, Georgia. I do not know his parents, did not grow up sitting next to him on sticky bus seats. I can’t invite him in. Shouldn’t. Probably won’t. I rise to my tiptoes and look through the peephole.
He’s still there. Staring at the floor, the back of his hand to his mouth. He runs a hand through his hair, slowly, then with rough aggression. Then, suddenly, he’s gone. I look as far as I can, the peephole giving me a limited view of the world. I want to open the door, to peek outside and see him. To see whether he is striding confidently down the hall, or moving hesitantly on to the next part of his night. But I don’t. I drop my heels by the door, kick off the slippers, and take four steps, falling into the closest bed.
Chapter 3
I wake up thinking of Brett. The possessive grip of his fingers, the need in his mouth, the press of his body against me, the heat between our touch. The way my body had cried out and his had responded.
Circumstance brings me back to Earth, reminding me, with the cruel pairing of sunlight rays, that he left. Had the opportunity to escort me in, get my contact number or, at the least, rock my world with one more kiss. But instead he ran. Or rather, briskly walked. With a gentleman’s goodbye and nothing more.
Shower. Pathetic water pressure that alternates between hot and lukewarm. Squeezing out a mini bottle of shampoo with a British crest, yet made in Illinois. I dry off hard enough to realize that my back is sunburnt, the itch and scratch of the towel rough against my tender skin. Wrapping the white terrycloth around my body, I walk to the closet. Stare at my open suitcase, then at the clothes hanging. Nothing looks good enough.
I thought I was too old to feel like this. This adolescent, breathless high. Nervous anticipation at the idea that I might walk downstairs and bump into his gaze. The tingling feeling that I may have met my soul mate, kissed his mouth, gazed up into his face and felt his smile touch my skin. Am I one of hundreds? Just another girl, just a brief experience that he will think nothing of? Did I imagine the spark, the connection? My leg is jiggling. Jumping up and down underneath the desk as I apply mascara with a hand that is too shaky, considering my system is drug free. The resort is huge. We leave in twenty-eight hours. I may never see him again. I should have gotten his number.
“Shut the curtains, bitch.”
I ignore the words, examine my blue sundress, and wonder if the deodorant marks skipping along the front will rub out.
“Seriously. What time is it?”
“Nine-twenty.” I toss the dress down, give up on looking put-together, and grab a pair of shorts and a tank top. That’s about as high class fashion as my town gets. It will have to be good enough.
“Fuuuccccckk …” The word is muffled under ten pounds of hangover and one mascara-smeared pillow, but it’s there. I have about five minutes before Tammy not-a-morning-person McGowan rolls her ass outta bed, and I don’t plan to be in striking distance when that happens.
“Coffee is brewed. We’re supposed to be at the spa at ten. I’m gonna run downstairs and grab breakfast.”
A grunt. Muffled curses. A word that I think is curtains. I grab my purse and room key, open the door, and escape.
This hotel’s prices would make a nun curse like Tammy. I order a bottled water, apple, and blueberry muffin from the coffee stand off the lobby and still rack up a thirteen-dollar bill, fifteen percent gratuity graciously added automatically. And for that additional two bucks I don’t even get a smile. I scribble my last name and room number, sign the line, and escape with my tray of food, pressing open the door and stepping onto the balcony, grabbing a table by the railing and settling in.
Wedge sandals kicked off, my chipped pink toes curl against the stone railing, brilliant blue water sparkling at me from behind one hundred acres of palm trees and resort pools. A pigeon missing the toes on his right foot lands on the railing three feet to my right and tilts his head at my toes as if he might give them a taste. I toss him a piece of muffin, then kick out my foot, leaning back my head once I am convinced that my piggies are safe.
Peel sticker from the apple. Crunch. Chew. Swallow. The sun is warm, even this early. And no humidity. God, I wish Georgia was like this. Heat without the moisture bath that makes sweat bead on my upper lip. Here, I could bake for hours. High enough up for a breeze, the sun warming me with a gentle embrace, I take a swig of water and then screw the lid back on. Loosen the muscles in my neck, slide down a little in my chair, and close my eyes. Good old alone time. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Then I will need to get my ass over to the spa for three hours of feminine chatter. Go Team McCrory.