Page 8 of Chips & Checks
I guess we’re doing this.
And by this, I mean the most dangerous thing I’ve done since letting Ash talk me into fake bangs in college. This man is trouble. Six-foot-plus, panty-melting, heartbreak-on-a-plate trouble.
But he asked. He negotiated. He listened.
And I’m going to his hotel room tonight not because I’m reckless, or bored, or lonely—but because I want to. Because for the first time in forever, I feel wanted back. Not as a trainer. Not as a body. Not as a sure thing.
As me.
God help us both.
* * *
I’ve seen The Grove from the outside hundreds of times, but I’ve never had a reason to be inside. The lobby is simple in aNorwegian Elegance sort of way. Minimalist, but still upscale. It’s a far cry from the opulence of the Mona Lisa, the only hotel in Vegas that I visit with any regularity.
Murph’s room, on the other hand, is cluttered. He strikes me as the kind of guy who travels light, but he’s got several suitcases and boxes stacked in the open closet, alongside the ubiquitous hotel ironing board.
Murph sits on the bed and gestures for me to join him. “So we know what’snoton the agenda, but what about whatison it?”
“Oh, um...” I shuffle over to him. I’m suddenly aware of howtallMurph is. How big in general. He’s broad and muscular, with thighs that could crush a watermelon with ease. What the hell am I doing in a strange room with this complete fucking stranger? I don’t even know his last name.
God, I could totally end up on an episode ofTrue Crime.And my mom would cry, and my dad would…
“Would it help if I made some suggestions?” Murph asks, voice low and rough enough to melt my spine.
I sit on the bed beside him. “Sure.”
He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes my cheek. “You good with me taking the lead?”
My breath stutters. “Yeah.”
One corner of his mouth lifts, wicked and slow. “You’ll stop me if anything’s too much, right?”
I nod, but he just arches a brow. Not mean. Just firm.
“I need words, Vi.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’ll tell you.”
“Good girl.”
The words hit me like a jolt of lightning.
He still hasn’t touched me—hasn’t even tried—but I’m already arching toward him like a magnet.
This doesn’t happen to me.
Not the goosebumps. Not the full-body ache. Not the feeling that one man could reach inside my chest and pluck every last thought I’ve ever had and replace it with him. I’ve had sex before. I’ve had chemistry. I’ve even had the slow-burn almosts that never quite delivered.
But this is alchemy. Pure, unfiltered, pull-you-under-and-drown-you-in-it magic.
No one’s ever looked at me like Murph is right now. Like he’s starving and I’m not just the meal, I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted to taste.
No one’s ever asked like he is now—like my comfort matters more than his ego.
And I’m not sure what’s more terrifying: how much I want this… or how safe I feel letting him take the lead.
His fingers finally brush my cheek, slow and deliberate, trailing down to tilt my chin toward him. His gaze roams over me like I’m a puzzle he’s already halfway solved.
