I take a quick shower, then slip on the fluffy hotel robe to wear as I pack.
I check one more time to make sure Jamie didn’t come back while I was in the shower, but her room is still abandoned, the bed still made from housekeeping’s last visit.
I’m actually typing out the text to Jamie when another one comes in.
It’s time to finish what we started —D
I smile, a slow burn of pleasure spreading over my skin.
Yes. It is.
Within sixty seconds, there is a knock at the door to the suite.
Within thirty more, I’m right there answering it.
I start to tease him about not just letting himself in—after all, he owns the hotel—but he destroys my plans by grabbing the sash of my robe and pulling me toward him, then pushing me back against the wall even as he kicks the door closed behind him.
“Well,” I say. “Hello.”
“No,” he says. “No more talking.” He unties the sash, then spreads my robe open, exposing me. He steps back, then simply looks at me, and my breath shudders as I wait for his eyes to return to my face. “Beautiful,” he says, then presses hard against me, the material from his suit rough against my skin, but his mouth even rougher against my lips.
The kiss is wild. Hard. And with such a dangerous edge that I taste blood and it makes me just a little crazy. I’m so wet, so hot, and the damn robe is too constricting. I need to feel the air against my skin before I burn up, and so I start to shrug it off.
Damien helps, pushing it off, his palms stroking my shoulders as he does and sending ripples of heat coursing through me. He catches the tie, pulling it free of the loops as the robe slides off me to pool on the floor.
He steps back, still saying nothing. Then he slowly raises my arms above my head and uses the sash to tie my wrists together. My breath catches, and I feel the tightening in my cunt, a hot, needy feeling, and I want to beg, but I am not allowed to talk. Yet I want him too badly, and since I cannot use my hands I hook my leg around his hips and urge him closer, then tilt my hips to rub against his.
He’s hard, and I arch back, feeling the length of him beneath the smooth material of his slacks. He is still dressed for dinner in a suit and jacket, all perfectly pressed and perfectly presentable. And the fact that I am naked in his arms is making me just a little crazy.
Please.
It’s a silent plea, but one he seems to understand, and I am weak with relief when I hear the sound of his zipper. He holds my bound wrists above my head with one hand while he teases my cunt with his other. I keep my leg tight against his hip as he thrusts his fingers hard inside me before finally entering me, hard and fast, his cock filling me. He pounds hard into me, still dressed, still silent, and it is wild and crazy and wonderfully exciting. And when he explodes inside me—when his body shudders and he trembles against me—I feel soft and feminine and deliciously used.
He is breathing hard—so am I. And I curl against him, my bound wrists around his neck, when he scoops me up and takes me into the bedroom. He lays me gently on the spread, then he strips, and I watch as the corporate uniform falls away, revealing a man who was surely sculpted by the gods.
This time, he makes love to me slowly. His mouth teasing me, his cock filling me, his hands stroking me until every bit of me is on fire. I am electrically charged, and when I explode, it is as if I am lightning, shooting across the night sky to crackle and burn, bright and wild and hot.
When the tremors of the orgasm fade, I go limp in his arms, then stretch once he unties me, enjoying every sore muscle, every bruise, every ache. And when I curl back up against him and he hooks his arm around my waist, I not only feel well-fucked, I also feel well-loved.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, when I realize that neither one of us has drifted off. I’m breaking the rules, maybe, but I don’t care. I want to hear his voice.
“That it’s a shame this is a weekend fling,” he says. “That if you were mine I would hold you close every day. I would tell you that you are my breath, my life. That you are the thing that gives my life meaning. That makes me whole.”
He brushes a kiss over the curve of my ear. “I’d tell you that I love you, and that I feel you in every beat of my heart and in every breath I take. I bless every sunrise because it marks a new day by your side. And that,” he says, “is what I would say if you were mine.”
My heart skitters with his words, and I roll over to face him. “I don’t know how you do it,” I say, “but I love you more each day.”
His smile is slow and very sexy, and I sigh when he kisses me softly. Then he looks at the clock. “It’s midnight.”
“Do you turn into a pumpkin?”
“Best not to find out,” he says. “Sleep tight, Ms. Fairchild. You are truly a fantasy made real.”
Damien slides out of bed. He pulls on his slacks and shirt, then walks back over and kisses my cheek. “Thank you for a lovely weekend.”
And then, before I can even process this new twist, he strides to the door, tugs it open, and disappears.
I roll over to his side of the bed, wanting the warmth from his body and the scent of his skin.
Alone.
Except I’m not. And tomorrow I’ll be going home.
Tomorrow, everything I’ve had in play will be mine for real again.
With a sigh, I pull the sheet up higher and snuggle against Damien’s lingering warmth. And as I drift off, I can’t help but think that I am a very lucky woman.
—
The next morning, Jamie is back in her bedroom in the suite. Ryan left on an early morning flight to LA, a fact that Jamie shares with me over a huge room service breakfast of omelets and bacon, waffles and hash browns.