by Vi Keeland
Charles shook his head. “I don’t think he was planning on coming back today. But he did say he’d see me in the morning.”
I sighed. “Great.”
Charles smiled sympathetically. “If it helps, you’re doing fine on your own. He didn’t ask a single question you hadn’t hit us with yesterday.”
That made me smile a little at the end of a long day. “Thanks, Charles.”
Since it was getting late, and I knew the housekeeping staff went down to a skeleton crew soon, I figured I should move to my new room so the old one could be cleaned and put back into inventory in case we had any walk-in guests tonight. The hotel wasn’t sold out, but there weren’t that many vacant rooms.
On the eighth floor, I packed up my clothes, toiletries, and all the work I’d spread out across the desk. Grabbing the stuff on hangers from the closet, I laid the garments over my arm. I’d stop back here to replace these with some empty ones from my new room on my way down to let the front desk know I’d made the switch.
With my purse, laptop, one big and one small suitcase, files, and a dozen hangers, I probably should have made two trips rather than one. Accessing the upper floors of the hotel required inserting a key into the elevator panel, so once I was inside, I attempted to balance everything while I dug my new swipe card out of my pocket.
The thirty-second floor of the hotel was the top floor, and all suites. The two largest ones, the presidential suites, were located in the corners on opposite sides of the building. A full row of diamond-level suites stretched between them. Finding room thirty-two twelve, I dropped a file on the floor while trying to scan the card in the electronic door reader. Bending to pick it up, I lost two of my dresses from their hangers. I barely managed to make it inside as more stuff started to spill from my arms. Using my hip to hold the door open, I dragged each of my bags inside the room and let whatever fell to the floor stay there. Sighing, I left everything at the front door and walked down the hall into the suite.
Wow. Totally worth the pain in the ass to change rooms.
To my right was a full living room, with a fireplace, floor-to-ceiling views of Central Park, two couches and two chairs, and a tremendous flat-screen TV. A set of French doors led to a small office, and another door on the left led to the bedroom. I walked there first, and a king-size bed with plush linens greeted me. On one side was a pretty settee, a love seat, and another fireplace. The other side of the room had the same floor-to-ceiling windows as the living room and—what is that in the corner on top of another chair?
It looked almost like luggage.
I stepped closer, and my eyes widened, confirming that it indeed was luggage.
Oh my God.
They’d assigned me a suite that wasn’t vacated yet!
I hadn’t noticed a sound since I walked in the door, but suddenly I heard the shower running, loud and clear.
Oh my God! I’m in someone’s suite.
While they’re in the freaking shower!
I froze for a few heartbeats, and then darted for the door. In my panic, I fumbled half of my belongings as I tried to toss them all out into the hallway before the guest got out of the shower.
But unfortunately, I was too slow.
A deep voice stopped me dead in my tracks.
“Going somewhere?”
Though, it wasn’t just any deep voice.
No. Of course not.
Only one man had that thick, hard-edged, confident tone that simultaneously irritated the shit out of me and made me want to slide my damp panties down my wobbly legs.
I didn’t even have to turn and see the face to confirm who it was.
In fact, I probably should have just finished tossing my stuff into the hall and bolted.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I took a deep breath and ever so slowly turned around.
Only to find Weston standing in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.
The sight made my brain stutter.
“I knew you’d eventually come around.” He smirked. “You should have just joined me in the shower. Though I do love undressing you myself.”
I hadn’t gotten a good look at Weston fully undressed before. The first time we were together, he was behind me most of the time. And the second, he’d had on an unbuttoned dress shirt and pants. I’d obviously felt his chest pressed against me, so I knew his body was firm, but seeing all of his sculpted flesh up close and personal was an entirely different experience. Beads of water traced their way down carved pecs onto washboard abs, and I had the strongest urge to catch each drop with my tongue. It was nearly impossible to lift my eyes and deprive them of such a magnificent view. But I forced myself to snap out of it.
“What the hell are you doing in my room? I thought Renée had accidentally assigned me a suite that hadn’t been vacated yet.”
“Your room? We decided to alternate weeks.”
“Yes, but the first week was mine!”
“Who said? You agreed that the first guest to request an upgrade is the one who gets the room.”
“But I had the key already. You knew that! You watched Renée hand it to me earlier.”
Instead of answering me, Weston’s eyes dropped to my breasts. I had no idea how the man managed it, but somehow it felt like his fingers were grazing over my skin as his gaze traveled over my body.
Did it suddenly get warm in here?
My heart thundered in my chest while emotions ran through my head. Disgust—a little at him and a lot at me—anger, conflict, confusion, and a heaping dose of Jesus Christ, if that isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
Weston took a few slow steps toward me. Acting on self-preservation, I raised a hand and showed him my palm. “Stop. Don’t come any farther.”
He froze mid-step and raised his eyes to meet mine. The beautiful sea of blue irises disappeared as black, stormy pupils pushed their way in. We stood there for a long moment in an intense stare-off. Weston seemed conflicted about his next move—until his eyes caught on something to my right. They lingered there for a few heartbeats, and when his eyes slid back to meet mine, the air shifted. He could barely contain the grin he attempted to hide, and his eyes glinted with renewed mirth. I turned to see what had caused such a change and found myself staring at my own reflection. A giant mirror hung in the hallway, above a half-moon-shaped table.
Shit. I closed my eyes.
The sound of something soft falling to the floor caused a sharp intake of my breath. I didn’t need to look to know what it was.
Weston’s towel.
“Turn around. Hands on the table. Ass out, sweetheart.”
I didn’t budge. A war raged inside me. Was I really this hard up that a firm body could have me listening to commands barked by a man I couldn’t stand? Again? What the hell was I doing? The door was only three feet away. Surely I was capable of putting one foot in front of the other and leaving this jerk with nothing but his misplaced confidence and a painful erection to take care of himself. Yet… I couldn’t deny that my body wanted him. Outrageously so. It felt like my skin was on fire, waiting for his touch.
He moved closer, and the heat from his body radiated behind me. Unable to make a decision to flee, but also not ready to give in, I kept my eyes closed tight.
Weston gripped my hip and his fingers dug into my skin. “You’re going to have to give me something. A nod, a yes, bending over and showing me what you want, a moan—I’ll take a few blinks, if that’s all you can do. I’m into role-playing you not wanting me to touch, if that would work for you. But only after I’m sure you’re giving me permission, Soph.”
Weston’s other hand raised to my neck. He trailed a finger over my throat and traced my collarbone. I lost the little resolve I’d been holding on to.
Opening my eyes, I looked into his tempestuous ones. “Fine. But this is it. I’m not kidding, Weston. This needs to stop.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I’m serious.”
�
��So am I. Now turn around. Grip the table. Eyes in the mirror at all times.”
It was kind of hard to feign righteous indignation when you were about to bend over and let a man have his wicked way with you. But I was a trooper. I kept my face stoic.
“Hey, Soph?”
My eyes met Weston’s in the mirror.
He grinned. “To come or not to come, that is the question.”
I did my best not to smile. “Let’s just get it over with.”
***
Twice.
I sighed, smoothing down my hair. For a man who had wanted me to wear my hair up so badly, he sure had no problem ripping it down. Weston was definitely a hair puller. And to my utter disgust, I loved every last tug. Though, this was the part I hated. Within two minutes of him straightening my skirt and disappearing into the bathroom, the cold air of rationality replaced the warmth of absurdity. In the heat of the moment, I couldn’t get enough. It was as if my lungs couldn’t take in enough air when Weston came near me with that darkness in his eyes. But as soon as it was over, a flood of oxygen had my brain firing again.
I rushed to gather my belongings before he came out of the bathroom, though I didn’t quite make it. Standing in the hallway, I was reaching for my suitcase when Weston covered my hand with his on the handle.
“Give me two minutes, and I’ll be out of here.”
I turned. “You’re going to give me the suite?”
He nodded. “I just need to pack up my stuff.”
I studied his face. “You sure?”
Weston grinned. “I’m game for sharing, if you prefer.”
I rolled my eyes, feeling more like the Weston and Sophia I was comfortable with. “Go pack your shit.”
He smiled and disappeared into the bedroom as I rolled back inside. A few minutes later, he walked out with his zipped suitcase in one hand and his dress shirt in the other. Setting down the case, he raised his arms to slip into his shirt, and I noticed for the first time a large scar running down the side of his body. It was faint, only a shade lighter than his tanned skin. Earlier, all I’d been able to see was a mass of perfect muscle, so I guess those outshined any minor flaws.
“Is that from a surgery of some sort?” I asked.
Weston frowned. He looked down and began to button his shirt. “Yup.”
Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it. But I was curious. “What kind of surgery was it?”
“Kidney. A long time ago.”
“Oh.” I nodded.
He picked up his suitcase, not bothering to finish buttoning or tuck his shirt in. “I left you something in the bedroom.”
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
Weston seemed unsure how to say goodbye. Eventually, he said, “You know I’m only rushing out because I can take a hint, and I know you don’t want me here after, right?”
“I appreciate that.”
“While I’m at it, I love your ass, but I wouldn’t mind looking at you while I’m inside you at some point in the future. Maybe even tasting those lips that like to yell at me.” He winked. “Bite ’em a few times.”
I sighed and looked away. “There can’t be a next time, Weston. This really needs to stop.”
I didn’t need to look up to know he was smiling. His voice said it all. “’Night, Feef.”
Chapter 10
* * *
Weston
“How are you, old man?”
Mr. Thorne grumbled. “I got a hemorrhoid the size of a golf ball sticking out of my ass, haven’t been laid since the Clinton administration, and the only person who comes to visit me is you. How do you think I’m feeling?”
I smiled and pulled a chair up to his bedside. “Two out of three of those I could do without knowing. But that last one—you’re a very lucky man.”
He waved his hand at me. “Did you bring me the goods?”
I shook my head, pulled ten scratch-offs from my inside suit jacket pocket, and dug a quarter from my pants. Grabbing a book off his nightstand, I set it up on his lap so he could work on his lottery tickets.
Mr. Thorne started to scratch off the gray latex and pointed to the nightstand without looking up. “Make sure you take the ten from my money over there.”
“Okay.”
Same conversation we had every time I came by since I’d been back in New York, and I wasn’t even sure he knew I’d never taken a dollar from him. The ten bucks was the least I could bring him for listening to my ass over the last few years.
While he was fiending on his lotto tickets, I swiped the remote from next to him on the bed and flicked to CNN.
“Hey. I was watching that.”
I arched a brow. “You were? Let me save you the trouble. It’s not the big guy with the shaved head’s kids. It’s the scrawny dude with the mullet and crooked teeth’s spawn.”
Mr. Thorne spent most of his day watching Jerry Springer and other similar programs. I had no idea if this particular episode was about paternity or not, but all those stupid shows seemed to end the same way.
“Smartass,” he grumbled.
“You know what they need to do on one of those shows?” I said. “Have a minimum income of a million dollars a year for guests. Change up the scenery a bit. Maybe I could sign up a few members of my family. Airing the dirty laundry of rich assholes is just as entertaining as the dirty laundry of people who don’t have a pot to piss in.”
Mr. Thorne scoffed. “Like anyone could relate to your problems, spoiled rich kid.”
Someone looking in from the outside might think I had reason to be insulted by the way the old man talked to me. But it was just his way—his way of reminding me my problems could be a hell of a lot worse.
He finished scratching off his tickets and tossed one at me. “Won five dollars. Only cost me ten. Give me back my ten and take this and a five. You can cash it in next time you stop to get my tickets. Bring me one of those ten-dollar scratch-offs next time instead of ten one-dollar ones.”
I tucked the winning ticket into my suit jacket. We sat quietly for the next ten or fifteen minutes, watching a story on CNN about some pharmaceutical company being investigated for selling a knock-off Viagra that supposedly caused some people to stay hard for up to four days. I wasn’t impressed; Sophia had done that shit even longer using nothing but her attitude.
Mr. Thorne clicked the TV off. “So, talk to me, kid. How are the urges these days?”
My gut reaction was to respond the same way I would if my father or grandfather had asked that question, which would be to lie and say I was doing great. But there was an old saying about the four people you always tell the truth: your wife, your priest, your doctor, and your lawyer.
But that was the sober man’s creed. The rest of us had five: your sponsor.
“I’ve had my moments. I paid the cleaning woman at the hotel where I’m staying a hundred bucks to take all the little liquor bottles out of my room the other day.”
He nodded. “Have you been going to meetings?”
I shook my head. “Not in the last two weeks, but I’ve gone to the shrink my grandfather is making me see a few times.”
Mr. Thorne wagged a crooked finger at me. “Get your ass to a meeting. You know the drill. You don’t have to talk, but you need to at least listen. That reminder is key in your recovery.”
I tried to make light of things. “I’m here listening to you. Why can’t that count as my daily listening torture?”
But Mr. Thorne took his sobriety very seriously. “Because I’m fourteen years clean, and the only way I can get myself a drink is by flinging my shriveled-up body off this bed and dragging these useless legs to a store. Which we both know, I don’t have the strength for anymore. But you, you have temptation all around you. Temptation right at your fingertips. Hell, you don’t even have to get up off your ass to get yourself a drink. Just lie in your fancy bed, in your fancy hotel room, and pick up the phone and call room service.”
I ran a hand through
my hair and nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll find a meeting.”
Walter Thorne and I went way back. Nine years ago I’d wandered into his hospital room drunk one night when I’d meant to visit my sister. I’d tripped over my own two feet and woke him up, laughing hysterically from the floor beside his bed. Turned out, I hadn’t even been on the right floor of the hospital. But the ornery bastard nevertheless sat up and asked me what my problem was.
I spent the next three hours unloading shit to him that I’d never said aloud to another soul. When I was done, I was pretty much sober, and Mr. Thorne proceeded to tell me he was in the hospital for his sixth surgery in five years since becoming a paraplegic when he crashed his car into a tree while drunk.
I didn’t visit my sister that day. But I came back sober the next day and sat with Mr. Thorne for a few hours after I visited Caroline. In fact, I visited with Mr. Thorne for ten days after my sister was discharged. He spent half our time together telling me dirty jokes and the other half lecturing me about sobering up. It would be a much better story if I could say that had been a turning point for me. But it wasn’t.
A few weeks later, I was back to partying, and I’d tossed the number Mr. Thorne gave me in the back of a drawer somewhere. Then five years ago, I dug it out and called him the night Caroline died. We started talking, and eventually I let him help me get sober.
“How are things between you and that jackass grandfather of yours?”
I forced a smile. “Everything’s pretty good. As long as he continues to get outstanding reports from the shrink, and I live up to the twenty other things I had to agree to in order to get my job back.”
“He’s just looking out for you.”
It was way more complicated than that; it always was with my family.
“How are things going with that lady friend you mentioned a while back?”
I had no idea who he was referencing, but I didn’t need to in order to answer. I shrugged. “It was just a date. Nothing more.”
“Boy, by the time I was your age, I was married with two kids.”
“That’s probably why you were divorced by the time you were thirty-five.”