“Mels, I—”
Swooping in, she stopped whatever it was he was going to say with her own mouth. At first, as the contact was made, his lips were stiff against her own, but that didn’t last. Soon enough, he was moving against her, wanting, taking. Licking. Nipping.
When she finally eased back, she was out of breath. “Don’t make up my mind for me, okay?”
It was clear she wasn’t the only one affected, because his chest was rising and falling with an urgency that turned her on.
“I don’t need sex to be happy with you,” she told him. “It’s honestly not that important—”
With a sudden surge, he all but pounced on her, pushing her back against the mattress and kissing her hard and deep. As his body covered hers, his tongue entered her, owning her in a way that was so complete, she hadn’t realized until that moment exactly how anemic any other man had been.
That heat that had sprung up exploded, the blood in her veins going into a roar in the space between heartbeats.
And that was before his hands started to undo her clothes.
29
As things went all Barry White and shit in the hotel room, Adrian backed out of there quietly, passing through the closed door and emerging into the hallway.
Jim had turfed the babysitting to him and taken off as soon as the reporter was at the Marriott, and that was all fine and dandy—but he wasn’t into live p**n unless he was personally involved, thank you very much. He was, however, completely into giving that pair plenty of Devina-free time. Shutting his eyes, he placed his palm on the wood of the exit he’d used and put a seal on the room, not just at its entrance, but all around the inside and into the bathroom.
Then he settled against the tone-on-tone wallpaper and shoved his hands in his pockets.
Now he knew why Jim smoked. Helped pass time when the dead zones came.
Man, that poor bastard Matthias, he thought. Then again, there were worse things than having a limp dick. Plus, that was what happened when you stepped on land mines or bombs or whatever the hell it had been: You blow your shit up, you can’t expect to be able to bone your female—
Down at the other end of the hall, the elevator doors opened and a woman stepped out, along with a daughter who was probably five or six. The former looked like she’d been through a war—or at least a lineup of bouncers: her hair was a mess, her sloping shoulders were strung with bags, and a lone suitcase was trailing after her on wheels like a sulking dog. The kid, on the other hand, was all firecracker, bouncing up and down, running up and back, her voice shrill enough to shatter glass.
Or, in the alternative, make you want to break it with your own head.
Adrian sat back while the parade went by him, keeping himself invisi. But that didn’t last—the little girl picked up on his presence, slowing to a stop and staring at where he was standing.
“Come on, Liza,” the mom said. “We’re down this way.”
“Mommy, there’s a angel here—”
“No, there isn’t.”
“But mommy, there so is! There’s a angel right here!”
“There is no one there. Will you come on?”
As the child just looked at him with big hazel eyes the size of car tires, Exhausto-mom came over and did a drag-away.
But mommy dearest had nailed it, he thought.
He didn’t feel like an angel. Never had, really—and Eddie’s death had taken away any small sense of responsibility to live up to the name. That dead SOB had been the standard to measure himself against. The one who was good and true. The compass…
Unable to stay still, Ad pushed himself out of his lean and headed for the elevator. Jabbing a finger into the down button, the doors opened immediately, the car that the mother/daughter pair had used still in place. On the ride down, he made himself visi, fixed his hair in the bronze mirrored panels, and straightened his leather jacket.
The prep work did nothing to improve his image. Then again, the problem was his expression. He looked like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.
Ding!
As the doors opened, he stepped out and long-legged it to the bar. Unfortunately, the place wasn’t seedy enough to attract the kind of woman he was after: no half-dressed Goths in the mix, with Prozac smiles and knees that liked to fall open—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find a volunteer.
Taking a seat in a darkened corner, he let his need for sex waft out from his body.
And whaddaya know, every woman who came in, walked by, or even registered for a room all the way across the lobby looked in his direction.
The waitress who’d served him and Jim the night before came right over. “Hi.”
Her smile was half-lidded and really not professional. Especially as her eyes drifted down everything he had to display.
Which happened to include an unapologetic hard-on.
“What can I get you?” she drawled.
She was good-looking in a way that was tied primarily to her youth. Skin was glowing, hair was lush and healthy, body was banging. A closer gander at her features suggested that if you added twenty years and twenty pounds she’d be anonymous in middle age, but he was all about the here and now anyway.
“They give you any breaks at this place?” he said in a low voice.
“Yeah.” Smile got even bigger. “They do.”
“When.”
“Ten minutes.”
“Where can I have you.”
Her lips parted like she needed more oxygen. “Where do you want me…?”
“Here. Now.” He glanced around the bar. “But that would give people a helluva show.”
As his eyes swung back, he looked her up and down, and pictured f**king her from the front, her legs wide around his hips, his c**k going in and out as he watched the sex….
Okay, the theory didn’t really excite him as much—but that was the difference between p**n and true penetration. The actual? That was what he was after.
The conversation with his waitress around The Plan was hushed and quick, but it wasn’t a business transaction. She was not a whore being bought; she was a red-blooded woman who wanted a good f**k just like he did.
With things set, Adrian left the bar, his body humming, his heart cold as a meat locker. As they’d discussed, he hung a louie and took the ornate stairwell down to the spa. On the descent, the sound of his heavy boots echoed up into the marble ceiling, and the scent of sea salts and minerals and perfumed oils made him want to breathe through his mouth, not his nose.