Page 9 of One Reckless Summer

“Follow me. My room is right there.”

Fuck me. My boots make clunking sounds on the wooden stairs, no matter how softly I try to step.

Daisy digs in her bag, retrieving a single key attached by a silver ring to a small, stuffed black swan, and aims it unsteadily at the door knob.

“Jussa sec.” Her balance seems to be deteriorating with each step. I knew I shouldn’t have bought her another shot. She gives me another one of her ‘shhhh’ gestures, only this time she adds a wink, and I already know this girl could ask me for my left nut, and I’d gladly deliver it to her on a silver platter. “The knob keeps moving.”

She taps the tip of the key all around its intended target, missing the jagged key slot four times before I can’t take it anymore.

“Here.” I slip my hand over hers, guiding the key into the slot, pushing it in as my mind takes the moment to think of how my dick would feel sliding into her soft silky warmth.

“You’re susha a gennleman,” she slurs with a cute little crinkle of her nose.

“You don’t know me. I’m no gentleman.”

Get your ass out of here before she can invite you in.

The door swings open, sending Daisy falling forward as her balance gives way. I catch her in the crook of my arm with a grunt, just inches before her face hits the floor. Holding her soft, curvy body against mine sends my balls into spasm.

“Mrs. Kelsey said after ten is quiet time.” She holds a finger to her lips, tipping her head twice in an invitation for me to come into her room.

Leave, asshole. You need to leave.

My feet ignore my brain. I set her onto her feet and lead us both, my arm still clutching around the soft skin of her exposed midriff, through the door and into the room.

Inside, it’s like a flower shop exploded. Everything that is not made of antique oak is a fury of floral patterns in pinks, lavenders and greens.

Daisy drifts away from my grip, leaving me staring around the ample bedroom, feeling like a two-hundred-and-seventy-pound sore thumb sticking out in this feminine space.

“You wanna drink?” She spins on her boot toward a bottle of Chardonnay that sits corked on the top of a small round table against the wall. She drops her bag on the floor next to the bed as she takes a few swaying steps toward the wine. “It came witha room.”

“No. And you don’t either,” I growl as she turns, staring at my mouth.

I sidestep, reaching out to snatch the bottle away, setting it on the floor by the closet door.

“But—” She looks like I took away her favorite toy, but she’s had enough. I can’t shake the low burning anger in my gut that she’s let a stranger into her room with her half in the bag.

What if that bald asshole had walked her back? Or any of the myriad lecherous locals that had their eye on her back in the bar?

“No buts.” I turn in a slow circle, spotting a six-pack of bottled water on the floor next to an open suitcase. “This is what you can drink.”

I step that way, taking a moment to memorize her scent, the way she makes me feel, all of it. I want to remember all of these moments, because I know this can’t go anywhere, and for the rest of my life I’ll be wishing things could have been different.

What’s one night? One last sendoff…

I crack open the twist-off cap, battling my urges and my conflicted conscience, then hold it to those puckered pink lips. “Drink. You need to hydrate.”

She keeps her lips shut for a beat, but I stand steady, nodding at her to comply, and with a roll of her eyes she draws a swig of the water into her mouth.

“One more,” I say as she blinks, giving me that doe-eyed look that could get her anything she asked for if she really tried.

I hold the bottle up, letting her take a long drink until I’m somewhat satisfied she’s got something other than alcohol in her stomach, then set it on the table next to her bag.

God, she’s fucking gorgeous, standing there with a single drip of the water traversing down her chin. I already know walking out that door is going to be painful. How will I function, knowing she’s out in the world without me?

Seeing other men. Fucking other men.

Christ, no, I don’t want to even imagine that. I’ll choose to believe she’s a fucking nun before I think of her in someone else’s arms.

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