Page 8 of Business or Pleasure

And then, as though letting me know how okay it is, he places a hand on my cheek, fingers skimming my ear and sliding into my short hair. Almost involuntarily, I close my eyes. He is so, so close—but I need him closer.

“I don’t usually do this, either,” I whisper, repeating what’s become something of a refrain for us tonight.

“Then I’m glad you made an exception for me.”

I open my eyes to find raw determination in his. One sharp inhale, and then I’m reaching up to his collar and pulling his mouth down to mine. The kiss isn’t sweet or kind or polite—it’s instantly rough, his lips moving against mine in a way that feels urgent. Desperate. A moan catches in my throat, one that he echoes when I slide my tongue against his, gripping his shoulders. It’s an electric, intoxicating feeling, kissing this guy against the brick wall outside a bookstore, his hands traveling down to my hips, steadying me so he can kiss me harder. Back to the wall. Shoulder blades digging into brick. I feel drugged, drunk, utterly addicted. Disconnected from reality.

There’s something about being anonymous with him that makes me do things I wouldn’t normally do—not in public, not with someone I barely know. I scrape my nails along his back, not caring when he kisses my neck and tugs the moan free. It’s nearly pornographic, the sound I make, and the way he hardens against me, I can tell exactly how he feels about it.

When we move apart for a breath of night air, his cheeks are an even deeper scarlet, his hair wild, and all I want is to see where else I can make him blush.

His mouth drops to my collarbone, pushing aside my jacket and Sleater-Kinney T-shirt. “Jesus,” he murmurs against my skin. “It’s ridiculous, how much I like you.”

“I like you, too,” I say, this innocent statement juxtaposed with the not-at-all-innocent way I arch my hips into his jeans, drawing out a low groan. “Where are you staying?” The street is still deserted, but I imagine it won’t be for long. Capitol Hill never is.

There’s that smile again, even as he rakes a hand through his make-out-mussed hair. “Not too far from here, actually. The Paramount.”

“Solid choice. What with the rooms, and the elevators, and the... general Paramount-ness to it.”

“Have you been?”

I shake my head, reaching out to roll up his sleeve that’s started to fall down. “Maybe you could give me a tour?”

I’m only half-aware of what I’m asking when the question leaves my lips, heavy with suggestion. And once it’s out there, I know, the way I haven’t been sure of anything in a while, that this is what I want.

Tonight.

Him.

“It seems only fair, when you’ve been such a great tour guide,” he says, eyes never leaving mine. Fierce and inviting, his pupils the deepest black. “But I should mention, I’ve really only been inside one room. I could show you around the hallway. The closets. The desk chair.” A twitch of his mouth. “Or any other pieces of furniture you happen to be interested in.”

“I love furniture.” I kiss him with more weight this time, heart beating a frantic new rhythm. “Lead the way.”

chapter

three

I’ve never had a one-night stand. Maybe there’s some truth to what Wyatt said about me being a Relationship Girl, but I think the more accurate statement is that I’m simply an Anxiety Girl. I’ve read too many murder mysteries to go home with a stranger.

So it’s a bit of a surprise, then—an excellent one—that as soon as we turn onto the street the hotel is on, we stop at a drugstore for condoms. Before we check out, I add a small bottle of personal lubricant. There’s no tiptoeing, no awkwardness, only the certainty of more as his hand finds mine, leading me through the hotel’s revolving doors and down an ornately decorated hallway to the elevator.

“You know,” I say as Drew hits the button marked 14, “just because there’s no number thirteen doesn’t mean you’re not technically on the thirteenth floor.”

“And yet I don’t feel too unlucky.”

There’s a family inside, a man and woman and two kids looking like they just came up from the pool, hair dripping and towels wrapped around their shivering shoulders.

“Evening,” the woman says to us as we step inside, pushing into a corner to make room, and I offer the kids a smile. I’m half tempted to tell Drew we can wait for the next one, but I don’t hate the way he runs a fingertip up my spine and then back down.

“Evening,” Drew says back, voice perfectly solid.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s an electric pulse of adrenaline that makes me squeeze my thighs together at the pressure starting to build there. I am going to have sex with this man I just met, whose last name I don’t know, who I haven’t stalked on Instagram or asked Noemie to check out on LinkedIn (because she has one of those accounts that doesn’t show when you’ve looked at someone’s profile), and then we’ll part ways.

No phone numbers. No strings.

“Have a good night,” Drew says to the family when the elevator opens on the fourteenth floor.

I’m all legs as I stumble into the hall with him, as though the slight press of his finger along my spine was what was holding me up. He stops in front of Room 1412, a lock of hair falling over his brow as he struggles with the key, like his nerves are getting in the way, which endears him to me even more. It strikes me that it could be an act, in which case I’m absolutely falling for it, but in this moment, I can’t bring myself to care. All I want is his skin on mine as we erase the world outside. A sweaty, indulgent night and a polite goodbye the next morning.

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