Page 12 of Ditching the Dragon (Fated Dates)

Kissing Wickham Barrett is an experience. Firm pressure and adamant confidence overtake any hesitation. He tastes of the whiskey-and-lemon-soaked cherry, and I open my mouth to seek out more of him.

Our tongues tangle, and his long frame fully traps me against the car.

I run my hands around his waist and tuck my fingers into the belt low on his spine. His back muscles flex, and every speck of movement is amplified a thousand fold while he presses against me.

But he tears his face away from me.

“I need to get you somewhere private,” he mutters.

“I’m all for that.”

The hulking man pulls me away from the car so he can pry open the door. I don’t even see him remove keys or unlock it. Hesettles me into my seat and circles to the driver’s side. He even does this adorable skip to get to the other door quicker.

Once inside, he buckles my seat belt for me—which would be annoying in any other circumstance, but right now I like it.

Michael kept the gate open for us the entire time. When the engine revs to life, the attendant jogs into the public road to stop traffic.

Wickham types a few commands into his phone, hits the ignition, and peels out of the parking space. We blast through the exit and rocket into the night.

If I’m totally honest with myself, I should’ve known something was off when we arrived at The Botanical.

The valet immediately hopped out of the station and ran to the driver’s side door. He greeted Wick by name. There was an exchange similar to Michael’s, but at no time did he hand Wickham a ticket. A key fob was left in the vehicle.

Before I could overthink that interaction, Wick had already appeared at my door to help me exit and ushered me into the hotel.

My heels clack on the marble floors inlaid with extravagant gold patterns. Florals and broad-leafed plants envelop the space in a fairytale aura. Flowered vines hang from the ceiling.

We don’t stop at the front desk. We don’t pause to check the map to see where we’re going.

No. Instead, Wickham continues leading me, our fingers tightly braided together, through the luxury hotel’s common space.

He waves his phone over the elevator’s access panel, and up we fly to the twenty-first floor.

When the doors slide open, a marble foyer is revealed, containing only a round table with an enormous vase and flower arrangement. Double doors on the other side remain closed.

Wick waves his phone again, and suddenly, I’m in one of the most expensive rooms in the city with unquestionably the hottest guy I’ve ever gone home with.

Maybe the AI is onto something after all.

Wick barely pauses to give me a tour. As if he knows the rooms intimately, he continues leading me along by our joined hands into a formal dining room.

Grass-cloth with hand-painted irises bloom above board and batten. The table could comfortably seat at least eight people.

There, waiting for us, is a plethora of foods and drinks. The variety is baffling, from a steak with shaved truffle down to a simple cheeseburger.

The smell alone makes my stomach growl.

Wickham chuckles, pulls out a chair, and waves an open hand to have me sit. Once I’m seated, he helps scoot the chair in.

“Eat,” he insists. “I need to check on a few emails before the Tokyo afternoon. It’ll only be a few minutes, I promise.”

“Thank you, Wickham.”

“Oh, and gorgeous? No more alcohol. I don’t want to worry you aren’t thinking straight—and I want you to remember every second.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no animosity to it.

A handsome, wealthy man who looks fucking fantastic in his pressed slacks is plying me with food and promising adult fun.

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