Page 9 of Business or Pleasure

The door’s barely clicked shut before he has me pinned against it, mouth on my throat. Nothing polite about it. He’s cinnamon sugar and that hint of cologne and something else, something that makes me dizzy when I drag my hands up his back and take a deep breath. My skin is buzzing, burning, alive.

It’s not until he backs up to kick off his shoes, fisting a hand in his pocket to toss a conference badge onto a desk, that I get a peek at the room. He’s kept it clean, or maybe the hotel staff already stopped by to tidy up. His suitcase is open on one of those luggage racks, a closet revealing another button-up shirt and blazer.

But my mind can focus on this for only a split second before he covers me again, freeing me of my denim jacket, which lands in a dark heap on the floor. I toss the bag of condoms somewhere next to it. Maybe because I’m entirely too eager, I go for his belt buckle first. A laugh slips past his lips as I yank it from his waist with a flourish. Our kisses turn deeper. Harder. He’s solid heat as he runs his hands down the sides of my body, curving over my generous hips and ass. I give it all right back. A thrust against the bulge in his jeans. A hand palming his back pockets. A shove so that I can get him against the door this time, tasting his jaw, neck, throat, fingers working to undo the buttons at his collar.

Then he tugs me forward in a motion that propels us back, back, back—until my leg slams into hard, cold metal.

The luggage rack.

“Shit,” I hiss out, clutching at my calf as I try to regain my balance.

He steadies me, eyes going wide, face gorgeously flushed. “You okay?”

“Yep. I’m good.” That sting of pain doesn’t stand a chance against my libido. I could be limping and I’d still need him on top of me. “And I should also say...” My anxiety intervenes, reminding me I’ve never done this before. “I tested a couple weeks ago, and I’m negative.”

“Me, too. Sorry, I should have said something earlier—I don’t know all the etiquette for this.” There’s a sheepishness to the way he says it.

“It’s okay,” I say, reaching for him again to finish his shirt.

He closes his eyes, lets me take control. “When you were doing that on the bench... I was so turned on.”

I toss the shirt aside and drop kisses along his bare chest, dragging him down onto the bed with me. I’m too distracted by touching him to get anything more than flashes of what he looks like: the soft curve of his stomach, skin dotted with freckles. A trail of reddish hair disappearing into his boxer briefs. “Not going to lie, I was, too.”

When I slip off my T-shirt, he spends a few moments taking in my breasts, spilling out of the bralette I dug from the back of my drawer this morning. My belly has a soft curve to it, too, faint pink stretch marks around my hips and waist, beneath my arms and along my breasts. I thought I’d be self-conscious with someone I met only a few hours ago, but the way he’s gazing at me leaves little room for it.

“Your body is just...” He trails off with a ragged breath, tracing a reverent thumb down my bra straps. Along the thin cotton, where my nipples are tight and desperate for his touch. “Wish I could tell that Tolkien nerd that things’ll really turn around for him one day.”

“You’re thinking about Lord of the Rings right now?” I say with a laugh, but I can’t deny the boost he’s giving my already inflated confidence. When I imagined casual hookups, I thought they’d be all sweat and gyrating bodies. I didn’t realize they could have a sense of humor.

A lowering of his lashes to half-mast, grin turning wicked. “Not anymore.” He turns his attention back to my bra, reaching an arm around to the back. “Elusive little thing, isn’t it?” he says, fingers fumbling with the fabric, and it takes me a second to realize he’s searching for a clasp.

“Oh—it’s a bralette,” I say. “I can help—”

“No, no, I can do it.”

But he doesn’t seem to get what I’m saying.

“No—there’s no clasp.” I twist around, trying to remove the bra. As he pulls it off, I feel a sharp yank around my neck and—

“Ow—”

“—oh fuck—”

“—I think your watch is caught in my necklace,” I manage as the chain digs into my skin, drawing out a shaky breath. I’m naked from the waist up, my breasts bouncing as we try to untangle ourselves. Left. Right. Under. Through. I’m half trying to keep the necklace from cutting off my air supply, half trying not to laugh— because from any angle, these acrobatics have got to look hilarious.

“Shit, shit, shit, I’m sorry,” Drew says when his watch steals a strand of my hair.

“This room is cursed,” I mutter, holding a hand to my boobs to keep them from bouncing quite so enthusiastically.

Once he extricates his arm and places his watch safely on the bedside table, I rub at my throat, wondering just how many casualties I can sustain in one night and if this is the universe trying to send me a sign.

“Rule of three,” Drew says. “It’s got to be smooth sailing from here.”

“Please.” I reach for his jeans, giving him a lift of my eyebrows when this act does not end in anyone getting maimed. He repeats it with me and—success. “Curse broken?”

“I’d say so.”

I tug him on top of me, his bare chest meeting mine, the weight of him allowing me to relax into the moment. Just like that, we’re back on track, and the relief is instantaneous. He buries his face between my breasts, teasing a nipple with his thumb and sending a jolt of pleasure straight to my core. I arch my back, my hand drifting to the front of his navy boxers, tented with his desire. The sound he lets out when I palm his cock through the fabric is a work of art. A perfect little moan, a thrust of his hips. A tightening of his hands on my breasts.

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