Page 11 of The Overtime Kiss

A yawn overtakes me as the events of the day catch up all at once. “I think I need to crash,” I admit reluctantly. I don’t want this night to end, but I’m exhausted, and a little buzzed. Maybe more than a little. And now I need to find a place to sleep too. “Today’s been…a lot.”

“Of course it has,” he agrees, standing as I do, steadying me with a warm, sure hand. His strong touch sends a shiver down my spine. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

“I don’t even know where I’m staying tonight. I don’t want to go back to Chad’s place, and the hotel is booked. I guess I could go to a friend’s house.” There’s Leighton, and I could call her in a heartbeat. I could ring my friend Islatoo. Both phoned me when I was in the Lyft, and I called them back on FaceTime together, telling them what happened after I left the ballroom. They cheered me on after the fact, which I appreciated. Rhonda cheered, too, as she drove.

“You’re not going to a friend’s house,” Tyler says firmly, and I like the certainty in his answer. Even better is when he says, “Come with me.”

His words linger between us, full of possibility. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze, like he’s taking a chance, too, as he asks for the bill and quickly settles up. We say goodnight to Ike, then leave together, heading toward the elevator, our shoulders brushing slightly.

Chills erupt down my spine. I can’t help but think this man might be everything this runaway bride needs.

And what does a bride need most on her wedding night? A real good time.

As the elevator rises, I picture Tyler unzipping my ridiculous house-of-a-dress, sliding the silly straps off my shoulders, and shimmying this ludicrous lace down my body.

Then hissing in a hot, lusty breath when he looks at me.

When he touches me.

When he tastes me.

The desire for him wallops me—powerful, primal, and almost out of nowhere. But really, it’s been building all night. The way he listens, the easy vibe he gives off, his utter capableness. It’s hot when a man gets shit done.

With his hand on my back and his room in our crosshairs, Tyler seems like a man who can finish all sorts of jobs.

As the elevator dings on the fifth floor, I whip my head toward him. “Chad was like a St. Bernard.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

We step off the elevator and the words flow. “In bed. He was like that in bed.”

He shoots me a curious look, like he’s dying to say more but feels like he shouldn’t.

But I want to tell him. And tequila—it might burn, but mixed in Margaritaville? It loosens my lips all the way up. “He’s the only man I’ve been with. He was my first, and I was faithful. But he went down on me like a St. Bernard,” I say as we walk along the hall.

Tyler parts his lips to speak, but it seems I’ve stunned him.

Good. I have no problem elaborating. “Sloppy. Abysmal. Like a dog.”

He swallows hard. “I…put two and two together.”

But I’m like a traveler on a plane that’s going down. And I can’t stop airing all my secrets. The things I’ve never even said to my best friends. Because who wants to admit the truth of their tragic sex lives? “It was so bad I didn’t even fake it,” I say, unable to stop telling him tales fromBad Sex and Other Catastrophes. “Instead, I just told him it wasn’t my thing—him going down on me—so he’d stop licking me like a slobbery dog. But…I think it could be my thing. I wanted it to be my thing. Just not from him.”

Tyler scrubs a big hand along his jaw, clearly unsure how to handle me right now.

But I’m undeterred. “And then,” I barrel on, like the plane is nose-diving into a field and I’ve got to let out all these terrible truths, “he said it was fine I didn’t want him to go down on me because he didn’t like it when someone went down on him. He claimed he didn’t like blow jobs. So, it felt fair, he said.” I roll my eyes. “But, in reality, he was getting them from Madison. She’s my dad’s VP of Marketing, by the way. My dad insisted she be the maid of honor. She’s not even a friend.”

“I don’t know which of those things is worse,” Tyler mutters, then waves his room key over the lock, the doorclicking open as he pushes it wide for me. He steps aside, holding the door, then tilts his head with a half-smile. “And it’s a shame there’s not a card that says ‘I’m sorry to hear about your St. Bernard ex.’ But trust me, I am.”

There’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. Curiosity? Interest? Definitely not judgment.

“Why are you sorry to hear that?” I ask, because my mouth can’t stop moving tonight.

He hesitates, his jaw set hard, like he’s debating what to say as I step inside. “Because I bet you’d enjoy it done properly.”

I’m ignited. A fire burns brightly inside me, flames reaching high. “I bet I would too.”

My gaze swings to his hands. He’s clenching them into fists, like he’s holding something back. Himself, maybe? Or is that just wishful thinking?

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