Page 27 of The Kiss Countdown

My throat burns too much to ask any questions, so I tag along, right on his heels, shutting the door with a firmclick. This time he leads me to the room at the end of the hall.

Now this one is cozy. There’s a king-size bed with a cream comforter and navy knitted throw blanket at the foot. One side of the bed has an ebony nightstand to match the headboard, while the other has a full-length mirror. It’s framed in white wood rather than the gold I would have chosen for my own room, but still a nice touch. And the large window has cream curtains. It immediately dawns on me that this must be the master bedroom.

“You want me to take your room?” I ask.

Vincent sets my overnight bag on the bed. “Yup. Feel free to move anything to your liking.”

I shake my head. “No, I can’t impose on you like this.” Lord knows I want to, because this is a million times better than the guest room, but I can’t.

“Amerie, it’s not an issue.”

“But it’s your room.” If any place is sacred in a person’s home, it’s their bedroom.

Vincent shrugs. “Half the time I fall asleep in my office or on the couch anyway.”

“Are you sure?” I play with the necklace at my throat. I don’t want to stand here and argue all day about sleeping arrangements, but just thinking about going back to the guest room makes my throat close up.

“Yes, Amerie. You’re my guest and I want you to be comfortable,” Vincent says. “As long as you don’t mind sharing the bathroom, then I’m all good.”

“Well, okay.”

He nods. “Good. That door leads to the bathroom. You’ll find a closet in there with towels and toiletries. I spend a lot of time in my office, which takes up the floor upstairs. Can I get you anything right now?”

“No, I think I’m all set.”

“Then I’ll be back with more boxes,” he says, and I swear he groans as he walks out. Luckily for him, the rest of the boxes are filled with lighter items like my clothes, a small portion of my shoe collection, and knitted scarves from my mom.

It’s a little overwhelming as I once again take in the room. I’m literally invading his personal space.

I take stock of my new surroundings. The pillow feels nice as I push against it. Not too hard, not too soft. The sheets are made of high-quality cotton, feeling almost silky against my palm, and I know it’ll be luxurious once I lie down. No scratchy threadbare linens here. Moving on to the nightstand, I open the top drawer where I’m met with a black box of condoms. I’m tempted to pick them up and see how many have been used, but I manage to close the drawer. I’m already taking over his room, I don’t need to violate his privacy.

I move to the bathroom and open the door, intending to get a quick peek. But what I see has me nearly ripping the hinges off to get inside. It’s the bathroom of my dreams.

A clawfoot tub large enough for two people to comfortably sink into sits below black casement windows, and I instantly imagine steaming water, floating rose petals, and a glass of wine waiting for me after a long day. The showerchamber—sincestalldoesn’t adequately describe the area with more space than the walk-in closet at my old apartment—has two showerheads. A detachable one against thewall, and a large square showerhead mounted on the ceiling. I know, with every fiber of my being, hair wash days will never be the same.

“Doing okay?” Vincent calls from the room.

“Mm-hmm,” I squeak. I am, in fact, not doing okay. I don’t know if I’m even alive.

The tiles on the floor and walls look like marble, so the room gleams with light from the window. The only thing missing is a chandelier above the tub. Vincent couldn’t have had the foresight to know I would one day be staying with him, so its absence is understandable.

“Soon,” I promise the bathroom, running my hand over the long counter. “Very soon.”

When I step back into the room, I see Vincent has left my suitcase and another box near the door. I didn’t even make it to the closet to see if my clothes will fit or if I’ll have to store them in the guest room. At this point, however, I think if I go back into the bathroom, I’ll never make it out.

I go to the bed and open my overnight bag to begin unpacking. The first thing I grab is my makeup bag, which I place on the dresser. Reaching in again, this time I pull out the box with my pink vibrator. Good ol’ Little Rocket. I don’t know how much use I’ll get out of it here. I think it would feel weird to use it in Vincent’s bed. Just in case, I take it from the box to test the sound. Once I turn it on, I immediately switch it back off. It sounds ten times louder than it did in my apartment. There’s no telling if Vincent will be able to hear the buzzing from the guest room if the mood strikes. I don’t think I’ll use it outside of the shower, where running water can mask the sound.

“Do you have bricks in this thing?”

At the sound of Vincent’s voice, I fumble with thevibrator, almost dropping it before I manage to get the nightstand open and throw it in. Right with the condoms.

Real smooth.

When I turn around, Vincent’s face is carefully blank, letting me know he absolutely saw what was in my hands. My body turns up a thousand degrees, but I try to find consolation in the fact that at least it was a small, simple thing, and not some large, triple-suction contraption I considered after binge-reading alien romances.

Well, I am a woman who enjoys her orgasms, and it is the twenty-first century. When Vincent finally meets my gaze, I lift my chin, daring him to say something funny. “What was that?”

He coughs into his hand. “This is everything. You can make room in the dresser or closet.”

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