of a cliché those amber eyes are, but he has them. She’s not imagining them. His skin, though she guesses his age somewhere between forty and fifty, is so fine-grained it appears to have been airbrushed.
He has her favorite kind of lips: a slightly pouting lower lip—perfect for nibbling—and a beautifully shaped upper lip—perfect for tracing with her tongue. They have her licking her own in response.
His body is broad across the shoulders, trim at the waist, his worn jeans tight over his thighs and molding his perfect ass. And yes, she noticed that as he walked across the room.
His ears are small and tucked tight into his head, completely exposed by his buzz cut. Difficult, she thinks at the time, to tell what color his hair might be. She’ll have to wait—no longer even trying to stop herself from breaking the rule—until she has him naked to find that out.
It has to be tonight.
Because she’s never felt this way before, never been this hot and impatient without a touch or a word. She can’t even be sure he’ll be interested.
Until he turns to her, his knees—no mistake there-meeting hers between the stools. They’re warm, the heat transferring even through the denim. And his hands, when he carefully lays them on her bare knees, are as hot as she feels.
“Another drink?” he asks, his eyes asking more of her than those two words could possibly imply.
“Uh,” she says, feeling like an idiot for having to look down at the bar to see what she’s drinking. “A scotch.” She looks at Lily behind the bar. “She knows what I drink.”
He follows her gaze and nods at Lily, holding up two fingers. “Scotch is good. Gets a nice buzz on. But only one more, okay?”
She doesn’t pretend not to know what he’s saying. They’re far beyond that. The scotch is a lubricant, just the way the heat of his hands is, the way the feel of the rough denim on her skin is.
She smiles to herself. Lubricant may be the last thing she needs; she’s dripping with need, her panties moist with it. She watches his nostrils flare and knows he’s caught the scent of her arousal.
“Jack,” he says, lifting one of his hands from her knee.
She places hers in it and the arousal intensifies. She suspects that the combination of desire, impatience and astonishment on his face are reflected on hers.
“Miri,” she says. “Pay for the drinks.”
She shrugs her jacket over her shoulders, slides off the stool—careful to give him just a flash of thigh—and struts over to the door to wait for him. She wants to watch him walk across the room, this time with the added knowledge of having him naked soon.
He drops a bill onto the bar and turns toward her. It’s only because she’s watching so closely that she notices the slight grimace of pain as he adjusts to the tightening of fabric around his cock. Even from here, in the relatively dim light of the bar, she can see the size of him, can imagine the sweet taste of ejaculate on the head of his cock. She licks her lips and wonders whether she’s imagining the groan she hears as he touches a perfect tongue to those perfect lips.
“The hotel across the street,” he says, his hand steady on her arm. “Okay? Because I don’t think I can wait any longer than that.”
She brushes her breasts against his arm in reply. Another groan, this one needing none of her imagination.
“Come on,” he growls, tugging at her arm. “Hurry.”
He’s tall, much taller than Miri, and she’s almost running to keep up with him as he strides across the street. But she’d run if she had to, do almost anything to get them past the check-in and up the elevator into a room, any room.
The lobby is quiet and they have the elevator to themselves. Her nipples are pressed tight against the silk of her bra, echoing the stretch of his jeans around his cock.
“I can’t touch you,” he says, leaning against the opposite side of the elevator. “Not yet.”
“If you touch me…” She pauses. “If you touch me now, we’ll be fucking before we reach the next floor.”
His wolfish smile should frighten her, Miri thinks, but it doesn’t. It only increases her anticipation.
The elevator dings one more time and the doors open. They walk sedately, a carefully calculated distance between them, to the room at the end of the corridor.
“There’s no one on either side of us,” he says, shoving the keycard into the slot.
“Good.”
The room is cool and dark, the faint pink of the setting sun barely visible through the sheer curtains. The king-size bed beckons but they restrain themselves, hanging their jackets in the closet, using the facilities—Miri includes a quick swirl of mouthwash and forces herself to stop before giving herself the sponge bath she’d normally indulge in under these circumstances.
She smiles. She’s never been in these circumstances, never so sure of herself, of his awareness of her. She knows he’ll notice if she washes, knows he’ll notice if she doesn’t. She also knows which he’ll appreciate more.
So she stops herself and revels in the scent, in the dampness between her legs, in the surety of knowing he wants her as much as she wants him.
She wants him naked. She wants to taste him, to nuzzle into the hair at his groin, to smell him the way she knows he does her.
Miri hesitates. Should she undress here? Before she steps through that door and he’s there, ready and waiting for her? Will it make things easier? Yes. Faster? Yes. Will it make things better? She doesn’t know the answer to that question. In the end, she changes nothing.
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