Page 124 of Ship Outta Luck

Dean squeezes my hand reassuringly.

“John Brandon, checking in.”

I narrow my eyes.John?If that’s his cover name, it isn’t an exciting one.

“Excellent, sir. ID?”

Dean sets the bags on the floor, fishing out a card from his wallet, and I squint at it.John Brandon.Huh.

“We received your reservation this afternoon, but there was a problem with the initial booking.”

“What was the problem?”

Dean squeezes me against his side, his big hand splayed possessively against my hip. I want to rock into it, press into him until there is no air left between us.

The man behind the counter clears his throat. “You selected double beds, but our only available suite has a king and a pullout couch. Will that suffice?”

Dean tilts his head at me, an inquisitive light in his eye. Only one bed? Not a problem for me.

I nod.

“It’s fine.”

“Excellent.” The concierge types a few things in his computer. “I see your dinner reservation is at nine tonight, please be aware the dress is dinner jacket and tie. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Oh, we will.” Dean drags his thumb lazily against my hip, and I bite my lip. My entire body on fire with need. He swipes the keys from the concierge, leading us over to the elevator bank.

The doors open, and I follow him inside. Without taking his eyes off me, he presses the button for the top floor. I step towards him, his hands moving to my hair, thumbs running across my jawline in tandem. His mouth dips towards me, and I breathe deeply, inhaling his scent.

The elevator chimes, and the doors open. He smiles, his eyes promising me everything I want. Everything I can take.

He moves down the hallway with purpose, stopping at the corner door, keying in. Bringing the packages inside. I pause at the threshold.

The suite is opulent, that’s the only word my mind can think of to describe it. The king bed dominates the space. A dining table set up in a side room, a small luxury kitchenette next to it. The lights glow a soft golden yellow, giving the whole room an impossibly romantic feel.

There’s a huge soaking tub, stocked with my favorite scent: all lemongrass, all the time.

“Did you do this?” The door shuts behind me as I point at the shampoo and body scrubs, the lotions and soaps and soaking salts.

Dean appears behind me, his hands rubbing across my sides. He kisses the side of my neck, and I lean into him. “Maybe.”

“Dean.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“It’s a little weird that you know so much about me already.” I squint at him. “For example, my favorite shampoo. And I know next to nothing about you.”

“Was the shampoo too much?” He presses another kiss against my neck, and I arch into him.

“Dean, I’m trying to be serious.”

“I tell you what—why don’t you shower, get cleaned up, then I promise to answer any questions you have over dinner.”

His thumb circles the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

“You don’t play fair.”

“We can talk now if you’d rather.”

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