Page 76 of The Grumpy Billionaire

I thank Florence for her help, and we get out of there.

ChapterThirty-Two

Hugo

Hotel Luxe isan upscale boutique hotel in the Financial District and my preferred no-strings hookup place. A tagline on its understated sign promises it’s “a hidden gem of tranquility and opulence.”

There is a certain serenity to the place, I suppose; the lobby is full of rich velvet furnishings done up in deep gem tones, all bathed by dim pools of light that make it hard to read anything that’s not on a screen.

Elegant. Discreet.

I came here weekly over this past summer with Susan, a bond analyst who is only ever free over a four-hour window on Saturday nights. This is also where I occasionally meet Laurel, a data security thought leader with a hotel room thing.

Purely utilitarian, no-strings affairs like these work when people are on the same page, and Susan and Laurel and I are definitely on the same page—we prefer fucking without the dates, without the conversations.

I stop at the concierge and do an expedited check-in, leaving a keycard for Stella to pick up, then I head down the plush hallway to 510, my favorite suite.

Meeting Stella here doesn’t feel right—not at all.

But I have to see her, and this is what she asked for. I’m done deciding what’s good for Stella. What’s good for Stella is officially up to Stella.

She doesn’t want gifts and dinner dates. As a man who prefers utilitarian relationships and absolutely cannot be distracted, I have to prefer that. When you think about it logically, it makes sense to do the no-strings thing.

Stella Woodward, the voice of logic and reason. A distracting person who helps me work. What is the world coming to?

I stroll into the room and adjust the heating, hoping she’ll be on time. I haven’t seen her for one full day, and it’s too long. Being with her feels like home—not just because of our history. It’s more. Being with her is beyond anything.

Beyond anythingis the fuzzy sort of phrase I wouldn’t have used even a month ago, but there it is.

Stella arrives seven minutes late. She closes the door and stands there. “This is your idea of tawdry? It’s a five-star hotel!”

I back her up against the door and kiss her. “The things I’m about to do to you are going to be so tawdry, this place will feel like a raunchy sex palace by the time you walk out of here.”

She smiles. “That is pretty tawdry.”

I slide her shirt aside, baring her shoulder, kissing her soft skin, dragging my lip up the satiny smoothness of her red bra strap.

“You’ll change the fabric of reality with your dirty ways?”

“The fucking fabric of reality, baby.” I kiss her neck.

“All of the elegant people out there will be transformed into gross men in overcoats?”

“Are you almost done with the comedy routine?” I growl.

“Dear Diary, I walked into an upscale hotel to meet him, and the sex was so tawdry that when I walked out, the hallway lighting had transformed from elegant sconces to flashing neon triple-X signs. A red-letter day, indeed!”

I stop kissing her.

“What?”

I take her hands and pin them to the door, hands up on either side of her head, waiting for her to be serious. She wanted a tawdry fuck, and tawdry fucks aren’t joke fests.

She raises her gaze to mine.

I wait for her to understand that I can hold her here for as long as I want. Iwillhold her here.

Her chest rises and falls, breath coming fast, watching me with those big brown eyes I could lose myself in, though brown isn’t at all sufficient to describe the color of her eyes—it’s more like chestnut and mocha, crackled through with burnt honey. Her eyes are deep. Endless. Full of soul and dimensionality.

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