This is not my room.
It's too big, and even through half-shut, bleary eyes I can tell the furnishings are classier and much more expensive than I could ever afford. I try to open my mouth to inhale a deep lungful of air, but my lips are glued together by a mixture of alcohol, dryness and cold, hard regret.
This is all Alice Brandon's fault. When I was chosen to represent our small firm of interior designers at this year's conference, she pulled me aside for a lecture on how this was the perfect opportunity to break my dry spell. Not that she put it quite so delicately. Using words like; 'frigid', 'good hot fuck' and 'practically re-virginated' definitely got her point across.
I'd huffily replied that re-virginated is not, and never has been, a real word. She can't keep taking liberties with the English language and make stuff up, even if she cracks me up the majority of the time.
It hasn't been that long since I last had sex, anyway, though I've been so busy with work that all things romantic are firmly on the back burner. For everything there is a season, and this spring was the time to concentrate on my career. Even if this meant I missed out on intimacy, and the firm touch of a gorgeous man as he wrenched my thighs apart and took everything I had to offer
Alice didn't believe a word of it.
A small moan and a dip of the bed remind me that I'm not alone, even if I'm hiding in my thoughts. It appears my dry spell has turned into a monsoon. I turn to my side and squint at the man next to me, checking his eyes are still closed. I let out a lungful of breath when I see he's still deep in slumber.
I'm so bad at this.
The rules of a one night stand dictate I should gather up my clothes and leave as quietly as possible. My cocktail dress hangs carelessly from the fifty inch TV screen in the corner of the room, but there's no evidence of my panties and bra. I guess we were pretty eager to get rid of our clothes last night. I shut my eyes and remember the way he practically ripped the clothes from my body, before running his hands all over me, palms rising and dipping with the contours of my curves.
My skin tingles with the memory of his touch, and I'm almost regretful I have to leave. But I need to play by the rules. You don't have hot, meaningless sex—three times—with a gorgeous stranger and hang around to make small talk in the morning. You gather up your clothes along with your self-esteem, and make a quick escape, clinging on to the memory of the one hot, steamy night when you were worshipped like a goddess.
And boy, did he worship me. Even before we started to talk in the bar, his gaze was firmly on my body, following me around the room with deep green irises. I'd felt like I was on fire all night, his scrutiny lending me a certain confidence; enough to make me shine amongst the men and women attending the 71st Annual Interior Design Conference.
Bringing myself back to the present, I shimmy out of the queen sized bed, scrambling around the hotel room on my knees, desperate to locate my navy lace bra and panties. They're the best I own—bought in an extravagant fit of madness—and I'm damned if I'm going to leave them behind as a trophy.
Even if he does deserve an award for his prowess.
When I'm dressed I allow myself to take a final, long regretful look at him as he lies on his back. The white cotton sheet is gathered around his waist, his bare chest firm and smooth in the soft morning light. Even asleep, Edward is a total babe, and I'm glad we exchanged first names so at least I'll have something to moan out in my late night solo sessions. He's definitely been awarded the starring role.
I locate my small evening purse on the side table in the lobby. Yes, his suite has a lobby, and it's so beautifully decorated that it seems more like a home than a penthouse room in an expensive hotel. I can't even imagine what the nightly rate must be.
The thick, oak door is all that stands between me and what remains of my dignity. I reach out and pull down the handle. A smile plays on my lips when my stomach rumbles loud enough to wake the dead. I'm thankful for the fabulous buffet breakfast that is included in the price of my room.
Damn. The handle won't give. In the half light of morning, it's hard to locate the locks but eventually I unfasten all three, hoping to god that I haven't woken Edward up with my fumbling. Then I push the handle again, but it remains stubbornly frozen.
I have forty-five minutes until the first workshop begins. I'd planned to spend that time eating breakfast alone and catching up on my emails. Instead I'm in the ridiculous position of having to go back to the bedroom, wake up the hottie, with little hope of making a dignified exit.
I'm so fucked.
My walk back into his bedroom is much less triumphant than my earlier exit. When I glance over at the bed, I can see the sheet has worked its way a little farther down his body in my absence, revealing the dark line of hair stretching down from his navel, and the deep indents of his abdominal muscles. I'm torn between shaking him awake and licking him out of slumber. My body is suddenly on fire and desperate for more.
He murmurs something unintelligible, and I watch as his lips tremble. The same lips which covered every inch of my body with smooth, teasing kisses last night. They'd dragged along my skin until every single nerve ending flared with pleasure, leaving me a quivering wreck.
Damn, now all I want to do is climb back in with him and give him a wake-up call he'll never forget.
I tell myself to focus. I've been tasked with making as many contacts as possible for Whitlock Designs, and that's not going to happen if I spend all day riding this pony. Christ, now I'm even more worked up, my cheeks heated and my thighs clammy. I need to get out of here before I do something I might not regret.
I lean over the bed and shake him.
His eyelids flutter, and as I lean closer, about to give him a harder push, I feel him come to life. His strong hands clasp my waist as he pulls me back into bed. He presses my spine to his chest, curling his legs behind mine until we are spooning, his breath hot on my neck.
A nudge against my ass tells me he's pleased to see me. Through the thin silk of my dress I can feel the outline of his large cock, hard as steel against the softness of my body.
"Morning, beautiful." He presses his lips into my hair, and the sound of his voice, along with the proximity of his body, makes my insides clench with pleasure. "Did your escape plan fail?"
He's chuckling now, and an involuntary grin spreads across my face when I realize I've been busted.
"I have a workshop in half an hour, I need to get ready." I stare regretfully at my watch. Visions of croissants and orange juice fragment into dust, replaced by the knowledge that I'll be starting the day with an empty stomach. Right on time it gurgles, causing him to laugh softly.
"Stay a little longer," he suggests.
"I need to get to the conference." I'm starting to panic. If Mr. Whitlock hears I skipped a whole day, my annual bonus won't even buy me a can of Coke.
I need that cash. I need any cash. Life in the city isn't cheap, and I have debts coming out of my ears.
Edward kisses my neck, brushing his lips over the sensitive skin just below my jaw. It's like there's a hotwire straight to my breasts. My nipples harden and I can feel myself getting wet. He runs a single fingertip down my arm, letting his knuckles brush the edge of my breast, and it's all I can do to hold myself still and not grind my ass against him.
"Or we could fuck." His voice is a growl in my ear. Every hair on my well groomed body stands on end.
"I have to—" my voice trails off as he lifts the hem of my dress, reaching round to feather his fingers up the front of my thighs, stopping just before he reaches my core. My train of thought seems to have disappeared with my dignity. I'm a hot, wet mess beneath his touch.
"What do you have to do, sweetheart?" There's a hint of a smile in his smooth, deep voice and I'm so aroused I can't do anything but moan. I'm so slick between my thighs he could just slip inside with the smallest of movements.
I want him to.
Somewhere inside the hot, sweet chaos that used to be my body, there exists an ambitious, driven woman. In a last-ditch attempt to coax her out, I close my eyes and try to tune out his touch. It takes every ounce of determination I have. His fingers draw tiny circles on the edge of my panties, so close ... so near to where I need him.
I practically launch myself out of the bed, landing on the soft carpet, my legs trembling with lust. Edward stares up at me, brows meeting in a deep frown, and I can tell he's just on the right side of pissed.
I guess he isn't used to rejection.
"I really have to go," I say breathlessly, smoothing the crumpled black silk over my thighs. "Shall I call reception and report the faulty lock?"
He wordlessly turns in the bed, this time so his back is to me. Sinewy muscles twist and turn under his skin when he reaches for the phone. Every inch of this guy is screaming for me to climb back into bed with him. I fidget on my toes, unable to remain still when my body is so close to the edge.
Damn it, it's not supposed to be like this. I should be smiling secretly to myself while listening to a lecture about synthetic silk and the future of fabrics. Not locked inside a hotel suite with my hot conquest and a mini bar full of goodies. A step away from an action replay.
When I put it that way, my predicament doesn't seem so bad.
"The phone isn't working." Edward slams it back down, and for the first time he looks flustered. "What the fuck is going on?"
I bite back a smile as he stumbles out of bed, his arm reaching out to switch on the nearby lamp. I'm waiting for it to turn on, so I can ogle his hot body with gentle illumination, but despite numerous clicks, and a few muttered oaths, it remains resolutely unlit.
"No electrics," he mutters, and tugs open the drawer next to the bed, pulling out a fresh pair of shorts. I'm almost disappointed to see him tuck away his junk, but I remind myself that I'm leaving and Edward can do whatever he wants to with his smooth, firm, and incredibly beautiful cock.
Even put it away.
It does seem a shame though.
He stalks across the carpet with the grace of a panther, and I follow him out to the lobby. I fold my arms across my chest as he rattles the handle of the door, pushing all his weight against the solid oak, his face twisting in frustration when it doesn't give an inch.
"It's completely stuck." He runs his hand through his thick, brown hair, and for a moment I'm transported to last night, when I tugged at it as he buried his face between my legs, his tongue snaking trails of pleasure against my core as I bucked against him in ecstasy.
I blame the lack of air conditioning for the heat that starts to course through my veins.
Edward brushes past me, walking back into the bedroom, and I swear I can see him smirk. Two spots of high color form on the apples of my cheeks as I try to banish all memory of his expert touch. I really need to concentrate on getting out of here.
I trail silently behind him, aware I'm doing nothing to help the situation. I would kill for a shower and a fresh pair of panties, not to mention a huge bucket of strong, black coffee. Without electricity I guess I'm out of luck for all three.
Edward calls down to reception, using his cell phone this time. His words are terse and clipped, and though I try not to listen, I can't help but be impressed by the way he is so commanding. I bet the person on the other end is quaking in their boots. I'm glad it's not me.
Or am I?
My mind is filled with a vision of Edward tying me up to the bed with silk scarves, whispering hot commands in my ear, telling me who's in charge. That voice—thick, smooth, yet full of expectation—makes me want to climb him like a monkey, clinging to every part of his body until we both go up in flames.
Jesus, I need a cold shower. I'm like a bitch in heat around this guy.
Edward drops his cell phone on the black, lacquered side table, then turns to look at me. I try to avert my gaze, not wanting him to see my ogling of his body, but I'm a second too slow. A sleepy, sexy grin spreads across his face, making my thighs want to clench.
"Well, Miss Swan, it appears we have a problem."
I'm absurdly gratified he remembers my name, as easily pleased as a stray cat. It's almost a surprise when he doesn't reach out to pet me.
I try to swallow down a purr before I can answer him. "A problem?"
"There's been a robbery in the hotel; a lot of money has gone missing. The police are searching the premises floor by floor. We're to remain in the suite until they get here."
"How long is it going to take?" I lick my dry lips. The thought of being stuck in a room with this absurdly handsome man thrills me, but it frightens me too. He's like the human equivalent of a rollercoaster. And though the thought scares me, I'm desperate to jump on and take a ride.
I know it'll make me scream.
"They're estimating an hour a floor."
I close my eyes and count up, estimating there's fifteen floors in this hotel. Edward's suite is right at the top.
"Fifteen hours?" I ask in a strangled whisper. "You've gotta be shitting me."
He takes one look at my face and bursts out laughing. "I am," he agrees, the glee written all over his annoyingly gorgeous face. "I'm totally shitting you."
A tiny part of me is disappointed.
"They should be done in a couple of hours." He's managed to compose himself. "Why don't you run yourself a nice warm bath, and I'll scavenge us up something for breakfast?"
A bath sounds delightful. I wonder why he's being so nice to me? It can't be that great for him, having me stuck in his suite, while we both wait for the cops to release us. I wonder how much money has been stolen.
"I'd love to," I agree, picking up my purse and walking into the over-large bathroom. I must have been sex-blind last night when I came in here to clean up after our third round, because I don't remember it being so ... luxurious. It's completely over the top; the floor and walls covered with large, cream-colored marble tiles, huge double sinks dominating one wall, and on the other a massive flat screen TV. The bathtub sits on a pedestal in the middle of the large room, and I'm almost disappointed to see there are no rose petals floating in there.
I shake my head and turn on the taps, watching the water fill it up. The hot water is steamy, despite the power cut, and I watch as little clouds of condensation float up from the surface. Reaching my hand out, I pour in the contents of three bottles of bath gel. If I'm going to be naked in here, I want my bubble shield as big as possible.
When it's full, I climb into the bath, piling my hair on top of my head in a top-knot. As I twist a hairband in to secure it, I feel a little like Marilyn Monroe in the Seven Year Itch. The bubble placement isn't quite as considered, and I'm way too brunette, but I go with the thought anyway.
I help myself to everything on the cabinet next to the bath. Sandalwood shower gel makes me smell just like Edward, and his razor is so smooth it's a pleasure to use on my legs. It glides like silk as I pull it along my calf, and I get a little excited when I think he may use it on his face later. I'm sure he won't mind.
Just as I'm shaving my armpits, Edward walks in, carrying a freshly laundered white t-shirt and a pair of drawstring pants. Though he's put some clothes on, his hair is still askew, reminding me how I pulled at it when he made me come last night. Damn.
"I thought you might like some clean clothes ..." He trails off when he looks at me. I'm not sure what causes the expression of surprise to spread across his features. Maybe it's the way I'm dragging his razor down my armpit, or how my nipples have managed to poke their way through the white foam, blinking at him like a lighthouse in a storm.
How the hell did Marilyn manage to stay covered?
At least I have the good grace to look ashamed as I gently lay his razor down on the edge of the bath. "I'm really sorry," I stutter. "Your razor is great."
"Razor?" He looks surprised, his brows pulling down to form a deep v. He's so busted; Edward is definitely preoccupied by my nipples.
I'm a minute away from pulling him in the bath with me. But then I see that he's dressed, and holy shit, he looks great. He's wearing a pair of expertly tailored suit pants-hanging from his hips in a way that should be illegal—with a pale blue shirt, the top few buttons undone. Enough for me to see the top of his chest.
I guess we're even.
"I'll … ah ... leave them here." He puts the clothes on a wicker chair in the corner of the room and backs out slowly, his eyes still glued to my tits. I can't understand why he's so fascinated by them, especially since he spent all last night with them. He spent long hours caressing them, burying his head in my chest as he sucked and bathed my nipples with his hot tongue.
So why is he so fixated on them now? Is it the fact they're peeping out of the bubbles, like something a little naughty and hidden? Or maybe it's the way they're hard as hell, and pointing towards him like a pair of headlamps. I don't know what it is, but I'm pretty sure I like having this effect on him.
Edward clears his throat before he leaves the bathroom, his features molded into a frown. "Breakfast's ready."
A/N - Fran and Sparrow polish my rough. Love you girls.
Thank you all for reading. This is a short 3-part story, the next chapter will be up on Saturday. I'll put a tease in my facebook group - please come and join, the link is on my profile page. You'll also be able to see the beautiful banner that Sparrow made for this fic - the girl has talent.
See you Saturday, Choc xx