Page 127 of The Playboy

As long as I get to spend the night with you, I don’t care what time you leave.

See you in an hour?

Me

Can’t wait. <3

* * *

“I’ve never seen you look so tired.” I ran both hands across Macon’s face once we pulled out of our hug. “I’m making you sleep tonight. Phone off. Eye mask on.” I giggled, knowing he was never going to wear one. “But eight hours of rest, no exception.”

He laughed as well.

But I hated that he had bags under his eyes and dark circles surrounding them, that his beard was messy because he hadn’t had the time to trim it—although it still looked sexy as fuck.

“I’m good.” He rubbed his nose over mine. “Don’t you worry.”

Before I could say a word, he lifted me into his arms and carried me toward his bed, where he spread me across the mattress, immediately climbing over me.

I could smell the shower he’d recently taken on his skin and the minty toothpaste on his breath.

And as his lips found mine, he kissed me with a raging hunger.

The type of passion he always had with me, but it was amped up due to our time apart.

Even though it technically hadn’t been that long since we’d seen each other.

From the moment we’d returned from LA, our schedules had been packed. We still made things work with dinner dates and a few overnights. We even chatted on the phone. But I knew both of us wanted more time together, and we had been bummed that we couldn’t make that happen.

Now, if I was willing to come here more often, I was sure that would make things easier, but every time I walked through the door of the hotel, I had to risk the staff recognizing me and asking why I was here. And then I had to worry about them reporting my presence to someone in management.

Fraternizing with guests was against the rules.

Soon, it wouldn’t matter because once I graduated, I would be giving my two-week notice, but I just wasn’t there yet. I had a little more time to go, and I counted on these paychecks.

And then there was the issue of Macon, how he still didn’t know, how badly I needed to tell him.

As I pulled away from our kiss, scanning his eyes, wiping my gloss off his lips, the words were there.

The courage.

My mouth parted and—

“Fuck, I have to see who this is,” he groaned, reaching into his pocket to pull out his ringing phone. “Shit, it’s my project manager. I have to take his call.” He gave me a quick peck. “Be right back.” He got up from the bed and went into the living room area.

I peeled myself up from the fluffy comforter, kicked off my shoes, and moved higher up the bed until my back was resting against the headboard. Since I didn’t have my phone—it was in my purse, which I’d dropped, along with my bag, somewhere near the entrance when he met me at the door—I busied myself with the notes Macon had kept from the housekeeper.

Unbeknownst to him, that was me.

He’d lined each one up in a pile on his nightstand.

There were three.

The first welcomed him to the hotel, which had been written on the day of his arrival—standard for all new check-ins. The second reprimanded him for the mess he’d left in the room. The third was an apology. It told him how sorry I was for leaving him the previous note, that I had no right to speak to him that way, and that I appreciated his tip—once again—and I didn’t believe I deserved it. That I was willing to get him whatever he wanted—he just needed to ask.

I never should have spoken to a guest that way, and I’d needed to acknowledge that and make it right, which I had.

But it went so much further than that.

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