“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She pulled him to her lips and kissed him even more deeply.
It made him burn hotter, imagining her there, alone in a narrow, rented bad, listening to the noises other people made as they came. He edged his hand up higher on her ribs, asking between kisses, “Did it turn you on?”
She squirmed, but her hand on the back of his neck didn’t relax its grip at all. “It was embarrassing.”
“Not answering my question.”
“Maybe. A little.”
All his plans receded in his mind, making way for a whole new set of dirty fantasies. He pulled back enough to see her face. “Did you want to put on a show? While we watch them put on theirs? Is someone a little bit of a voyeur?”
“No.” But her cheeks were flushing. “No, but I’m not afraid to. If they don’t care, then I—I won’t care, either.”
And he could read it in her eyes and in her breath. She was simply waiting for him to ask.
The words were on his tongue, right on the cusp of spilling out. If he kissed her throat and sucked her ear. If he pressed his hardness against her hip and told her to take him home, she would. He could lay her out on those borrowed sheets in the dark and take her apart. In muffled moans and whispered instructions, he’d touch her and find out how she arched and what she’d shout. Press inside and take what he wanted, no matter who was listening, lying in their own beds on the other side of the room.
It would be so. Fucking. Hot.
But after, they’d be sleeping on a single bed, and the shame of it all would stay at bay only so long. She’d squirm, or maybe outright ask him to go, and no. He’d just awoken from his haze. This thing was temporary, but he wouldn’t doom it to a single night.
No. His plan was better.
He gripped the hem of her shirt in his fist and squeezed his eyes closed against the arousal that was growing too sharp, making it almost hard to think. “What if I had a better idea?”
“Hmm?”
She was lost in it, too, and he had to separate them. It took too much of his will to pull a half step back and put some air between their bodies. He did it, though. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye.
“Neither of us likes where we’re staying, right?”
“No.” Her brows furrowed. “But—”
“So what if we pooled our resources?”
“I don’t understand.”
And he had to be careful how he worded this. “Money for two bunks at hostels. Add it together, and it pays for a real hotel.” He slid his hand lower to stroke the hollow of her throat with his thumb. “A private room. Private bath.” He dipped in closer so he was speaking in her ear. “I’d make love to you on a big fluffy bed, and then in the shower. Put my face between your legs against the counter. And you could scream as loud as you wanted to. No one to hear. No one to see how many times I make you come.”
The moan that poured out of her at that sent sparks skittering down his spine.
She was shaking her head, but her eyes were glazed, and she parted her thighs to let him slide a knee between them. “Already paid for tonight.”
“So this first one’s on me.” He drew a line up her cheek with his nose. “If you don’t have the best night of your life, you can go back to your tiny bed and your roommates tomorrow. But you won’t.” Nipping at her jaw, he let his voice go rumbly and dark. “I’m very, very patient. I don’t let up until everyone is . . . satisfied.”
Her resolve was faltering. “You have a place picked out?”
“Reserved and everything. Five stops on the Metro.” A perfect place on a quiet street, nice enough for his tastes but not so fancy as to make her uncomfortable or put the lie to all his not-quite truths. “Clean white sheets and a little balcony and a bakery down the street. I’ll buy you a chocolate croissant in the morning and eat it off your hip.”
Her laugh was like bells, her hands gripping him in a way that told him she wouldn’t let go. “Well, if there’s chocolate involved . . .”
“Anything you want.” And God, he really meant that.
She shifted, nudging him back so she could look him in the eye. “And if I do have the best night of my life?”
“Then I’ll give you more of them.” He swallowed hard, surprised by the fervency in his own voice. By how much he wanted this. “As many as you can stay for. They’re all yours.”
For what felt like centuries, indecision colored her features, bright white teeth flashing as they dug into the corner of her lip. It was all spread out before him—her hesitation and her need. Her body was coiled so tightly, and he wanted nothing more than to give it what it clearly craved.
Say yes, he chanted in his mind. I’ll be so good to you.
But there was so much uncertainty there, too. Inhibitions he’d do his best to peel away, but it would take time. Time and a leap of faith.
He held his breath.
Finally, finally, she pushed off the wall and lifted up onto her toes, dragging him down for a softer, briefer kiss. His heart did the strangest things inside his chest; he had no idea how much he’d been counting on her to say yes. This kiss didn’t taste like yes. He didn’t know what it tasted like, and the uncertainty set him on edge. People didn’t say no to him, not about things like this.
She dropped down and released his lips, but before his worry could take over, before he could pull her back in and state his case more ardently, she threaded her hand through his.
“All right,” she said.
The clouds parted in his mind. That was it. What he’d been waiting for.
Kate wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when Rylan had told her he’d gotten them a room for the night. Really, nothing would have surprised her, and as long as they hadn’t been sharing with any patchouli-scented backpackers, she would have been content.
She was more than content.
The room wasn’t overdone, but it was nice. Tasteful. Crisp, clean white sheets, just like he had promised, and red draperies framing the doorway that opened out onto a tiny little balcony. Cream-colored walls decorated with a big mirror and classic-looking paintings. A little desk with a chair and a rose-colored settee.
Rylan had excused himself to the restroom, so she was left standing there alone, taking it all in. Trying to calm her nerves. She ran her hand over the headboard, and then the corner of the nightstand. What looked like an intercom was set into the wall to one side of the bed, and she stooped to examine it more closely. When she pressed one of the buttons in the center of it, static crackled, followed by faint strains of music. Édith Piaf. A radio. A radio with five stations, and she moved through them, smiling as the old chanteuse gave way to quiet jazz, then an American power ballad from the eighties. And then a . . . polka? Shaking her head, she turned the thing off and faced the room again.
But all she kept coming back to was the bed.
She shivered, crossing her arms over her chest and working to force her anxiety down. Neither of them had made any pretense about why they were here. When he was with her, though—when he was kissing her mouth or smoothing his hands down her hips, it all made sense. When she was alone, all she could think was that she had no idea what she was doing. The entire venture was a terrible mistake.
The air in the room suddenly felt too warm, and she crossed to the opposite wall. It took a little bit of fiddling, but she got the doors out onto the balcony to open. Fresh air poured across her face, bringing with it the sounds of the city below, and she closed her eyes as she stepped out onto the landing. She set her hands on the railing and bowed her head.
She was going to do this. She wasn’t going to freeze up, the way Aaron always accused her of doing. It was going to be fine.
She opened her eyes, and they stung. Why had Rylan left her alone with nothing to do but think for so long?