Page 10 of Rim Job

“My hotel,” he repeats with a smile.

“Look, I’m not trying to play Who’s on First here. I need to get back to my room at my hotel. In order to do that, I need to find my purse, which has my identification and credit cards. I need to know how far away I am because I have to be at my hotel to help my best friend get ready for her wedding.” I turn to look at the clock on the night stand.

Shit, her bridal breakfast starts in an hour, and I still need to find my things and get ready.

“My driver can take you. I’ll find your belongings and have them sent over to you.”

He’s really nice. So nice, in fact, I almost feel bad for being bitchy.

Almost.

It could be that proper-ass accent though. It goes straight to my hoo-ha.

Fucking accent.

It’s probably why I’m in this damn mess.

He did take advantage of a drunken stranger and obviously seduced her into marriage against her will. He can’t be that nice. I move toward a massive mahogany desk in the corner of the room that likely cost more than my entire shoe collection—and let me tell you, that’s saying something. I rip a piece of paper off a monogrammed pad of paper.

Who carries monogrammed paper to a hotel with them? Who the hell is this guy?

I lean over the desk to grab a pen—of course, it’s monogrammed too. I can’t help the eye roll.

Fancy English fucker.

I scribble my cell number down and toss the pen back onto the desk. I turn, and the sexy son of a bitch is standing there, still naked, cock hard as a rock.

“You’re absolutely heavenly, wife. How about a quick shower with your husband before you go?”

“Do not call me that.” I grit my teeth as I march over to him and slap the piece of paper with my number onto his chest. He grunts slightly before snagging my hand and keeping it on his chest.

His huge, muscular, warm chest.

I catch myself involuntarily licking my lips. He is so fucking good looking, make-you-dumb-enough-to-marry-a-stranger, good-looking apparently. He gives my hand a gentle squeeze, and my eyes shoot up to his.

“Like what you see, wife?” The bastard smiles.

“Arrrrgh! No!” I growl.

He is pissing me off! I yank my hand free from his grip. His smile never leaves that pretty fucking face.

Bastard.

Pretty fucking British bastard.

I storm toward the door, my heels clicking violently against the marble floors.

“Call me when my stuff is on its way. I will meet your driver in the lobby. You,” I stab an angry finger in his direction so there is no mistaking who I am talking to, “tomorrow, we annul this fucking marriage.”

I swing the massive door open and storm out on my husband.

Fucking husband.

Mother fucker.

5

RIMMINGTON

---