Page 17 of The Himbo and the Lord

“So fucking good, Nate,” I groan. I’m not going to hold on much longer. He doubles his efforts and my breath becomes choppy as my hips seem to have a life of their own.

Then there’s a knock on the door and a voice calls out.

“Room service.”

Nate chooses that moment to grab my arse cheeks and dig his fingers into my flesh.

Fuck!

“Mr. Cardew?” The voice becomes louder.

Nate starts kneading my arse cheeks, and I can hardly form a coherent thought.

“I—um. I—unngh, just leave it there,” I manage to gasp out, as my thighs shake, and with another moan, I come, shooting down his throat.

I sit back, slipping out of his mouth, and he grins at me, his lips glistening and his face flushed. He looks debauched and utterly divine.

“That was . . . That was, fucking wow.” The high of my orgasm leaves me barely able to speak.

“The first course was delicious,” he says, licking his lips. “And now I’ve worked up an appetite.” He rises and disappears into the bathroom.

I clamber off the bed, my legs still slightly wobbly, and once again retrieve my sweatpants, pulling them on before opening the door and wheeling the trolley inside and to the table close to the large window of the suite. Nate sits down at the table, still naked, and I blink at him. He looks down at his body, following my gaze. He shrugs.

“I’m not putting my clothes on until I’ve had a shower, and I smell bacon and eggs. I don’t want them to get cold. But first, tell me you have coffee.”

“You have no shame,” I say, only half teasingly, and he shrugs again.

“Why should I?”

He has a point. Why should he?

He’s fit and gorgeous; I’ve already seen every inch of his skin. He probably has no responsibilities, no commitments, the ultimate free spirit.

He uncovers some of the dishes, and spoons food onto his plate.

“You hungry?” I ask, gesturing to the mound of food he’s piled up.

“If I am, it’s your fault,” he quips back, and I laugh and sit opposite, retrieving what he’s left for myself.

“It’s just that in my house if I didn’t get in there before my sister, there would never be any left for me. Old habits die hard.”

“You have a sister?” I’m intrigued about his family.

“Yeah, Chelsea. She’s older than me. Just a year, but you’d think it was ten the way she treats me.”

“Tell me about it.” I tuck into my own food.

“You have a sister?”

“Yes, Petra. She’s two years older than me and she never lets me forget it. But really she’s not so bad.”

“Mine too.” He admits, giving me a smile I interpret to be solidarity over older, meddlesome sisters.

I pour us both some coffee. I still don’t know much about him. I don’t even know his surname. I wonder what he’s actually doing in Sydney. I know he has friends—a bunch of guys just like him—but that’s it. He obviously has money given the clothes he wears and the hotels he stays at. But that can mean anything.

“What are you doing in Sydney?” I ask casually, trying to find out more.

“I’m with my buddies, we’re on vacation. But we’re leaving soon. Actually, we’re flying to Melbourne later today.”

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