7
Holly
“People will see.” Despite my protests, I lengthen my neck to give him access to more of my skin. More real-estate for his lips and the tempting rasp of his beard.
“What exactly will they see?”
Maybe they’ll see how Alexander has pressed me up against some random hotel room door. At least it’s on the right floor, and at least we managed not to maul each other in the elevator. Thanks to the presence of another couple. They might also see how his hands seem to own my butt and how I’m trying to ride his thigh like a pony at the county fair.
“They’ll see us kissing,” I answer much more sensibly. And boy, can the man kiss. And deliver a cutting set down when the occasion calls for it. His talents know no end because he can also do this really cool flex of his muscled chest. Is it any wonder I find my hands there again?
“My room is just along . . .” He doesn’t follow the vague wave of my finger, instead taking my hand in his.
“You just don’t know how lovely you are.”
“So you’re saying it’s my fault we’re not in my room yet?” I pout a little, though I’m not sure it does anything to contain my excitement.
“Yes, for being irresistible.”
Says the man with a commanding aura and the superhero chest.
At least he doesn’t wear jockey shorts on top of his pants.
“Something you’re finding amusing?” His gaze turns playful, but there’s an intensity there, too. The kind that makes my heart beat a little too fast, an arrhythmic beat I can feel everywhere.
“I was just thinking about your underwear.” I might not physically be able to raise one brow—I’ve tried, and the best I’ve got is a strange-looking duo waggle—but I’ve found this tone is a pretty good substitute.
“That sounds promising.” Under my fingers, his chest flexes again, muscle and sinew reacting to my touch.
I can’t wait to see what’s under here.
“There are security cameras,” I whisper, spreading my fingers wide and pushing him back as he looks about to kiss me again.
“Then you should stop looking at me like that.”
“Exactly how is it I’m looking at you?” I half ask, half taunt.
“Like you’re picturing me without my underwear.”
“I think that’s called projecting, Lyle. Maybe I was thinking about offering you a very respectable—”
“There is nothing respectable about the things I want to do to you.”
I’m not sure if it’s the pictures those words create or the delivery of his wicked promise in that very proper accent that makes my knees buckle a little.
“—tea,” I respond, surprised I manage to respond at all and more surprised still at how natural my voice sounds. “I was going to say cup of tea.”
“Then I’m about to be very, very disappointed.” His serious reply is accompanied with the kind of grin that would make a nun weep into her communion wine.
“Should I save the tea for afterward?”
“You’ve heard about the deviancy of Englishmen, then?”
“This smile.” I find myself pressing my hand to his cheek, my insides tightening at the brush of his stubble. “I wonder when the devil wants it back.” Surely, it can only be on loan.
“You think I have the devil’s smile?”
“On such a beautiful mouth, too.”
He turns his lips into my palm, pressing a kiss to the meat. His eyes are like twin flames as he turns his attention back again. “I have heard it said that I have the devil’s own tongue.”
All the tingles. All between my legs.
I don’t for one hot minute think this is the kind of man who drinks tea as a post-sex treat. He looks more like the kind of man who’d roll me over, slap my ass, and start again. Yes, please!
And who knew Englishmen had such aural game! Let me tell you, if I’d known, I might’ve dipped my toe in the waters—the waters of eligible men—long before now.
“Oh!” I suck in a sharp breath at the shocking awareness of his teeth pressing down on my knuckles. Delicately at first, then not quite so gently, his eyes watching my reaction, almost feeding from it. Something inside me twists, a sensation sweet, deep and urgent. It’s just his mouth. On my hand. How can this feel like . . . everything?
“I think we should find this room now.” His voice is like velvet. I want to wrap myself in it.
“Yes.” Oh, boy, yes, we should. I step forward, and he steps back but doesn’t let go of my hand. “It’s this way.” I swing right and take a couple of stumbling steps before catching sight of a sign containing room numbers. Son of a biscuit, I’m going the wrong way. I swing around, almost colliding with his chest. Again. “My bad. I-it’s this way.”
His chuckle follows me along the hallway.
At the door to my hotel room, my hand trembles as I slide it into my purse, but I manage to find the key card. Pulling it out, I swipe it against the door’s reading mechanism.