Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 78164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I take a deep breath, fighting the uptick in my heartbeat.
“I’ll get a bath running for us,” he says, stretching his arms overhead. The candlelight casts a sexy shadow over him. “But don’t come into the en suite until I tell you, okay?”
“Hey, Tate?”
“What, gorgeous?”
Fuck it. “How about we forget the bath and see if you can go four for four?”
His smirk is sinful.
A delicious shudder heats my body, and my heart flutters wildly. Madly. This is the romance-novel passion I’ve dreamed of experiencing. It’s intense and passionate—potentially destructive, but that’s a dark moment I’m willing to push off until later.
The climax is so worth it.
“Do you have anything in mind?” he asks as his cock hardens before my eyes.
I gulp, my face flushing. “I’ve always wanted to try reverse cowgirl.”
He chuckles as if he can’t believe my request.
“Are you laughing at me?” I lift a brow.
“I’m wondering how I got so fucking lucky.”
“Well, it’s probably—ah!”
I burst into a fit of giggles as he leaps on the bed and covers my body with his. His lips find mine, and he swallows the laughter, leaving me breathless.
Again.
It turns out I do, in fact, like anything this man does to me.
Chapter Nine
Aurora
Ouch!
I straighten my legs beneath the sheets and wince again.
Why am I so sore?
I crack my eyes open to the bright morning sunlight streaming in from a small opening in the windows. Hotel windows.
Oh, right. I’m in Columbus for the conference.
The conference!
Shit!
My eyes fly open. They only grow wider as the events of last night come barreling back to me. Slowly, I turn my head to the right.
Oh my God.
I’m in his bed. I peek under the sheets. Still naked.
At least he’s naked, too. And half hard. Is Tate ever not ready to go?
My core constricts, craving another round with the man who wore me the hell out last night.
But there’s no time for that.
I glance at the clock on Tate’s side of the bed and breathe a tiny sigh of relief. I have two hours to get ready for work—the actual reason I’m here.
This was a one-night stand, Aurora. Don’t lose the plot.
Guilt swamps me as I lie in a stranger’s room, blissed out from a night of sex instead of being focused and prepared for today’s events. Now I have to do a walk of shame to my room and hope I don’t see anyone I’ll meet later today, because it’ll be obvious what happened. No one is wearing the dress and heels I’ll be wearing this early in the day.
Or looking so thoroughly fucked.
I rub my forehead, trying to slow my thoughts down.
I have to get out of here.
After a glance at Tate’s chiseled abs and sexy shoulders, I climb out of bed as quietly as I can.
I tiptoe into the living area, closing the bedroom door softly behind me, and gather my discarded heels as I go. My dress is where I stepped out of it last night. I do a brief search for my bra to no avail.
“Forget it,” I whisper, slipping the dress back on with shaky hands. “I don’t have time.”
There isn’t a mirror to check my reflection, but I’m positive I’m a mess. Tate and I took a bath at one point in the night. But before we had time to wash anything, like my face, I was bent over the side of the tub and getting railed from behind.
My stomach clenches at the memory, and I can’t help but smile. Was there a surface in this suite that I didn’t get pounded on last night?
I ignore the temptation to climb back in bed for one final hoorah and instead grab my purse and the rose Tate brought to me at Ruma. I start to leave but stop.
My breaths are hurried, and my heart pounds. What do I do? Do I walk out without a goodbye of any sort?
That seems like a viable solution, and one that’s merited. I told him this was a one-night thing. He must expect that I’ll be gone … right?
I groan, finding a small pad of paper and a pen on the desk by the wall.
Thanks for an incredible night.
“How do I sign this?” I whisper, nibbling my bottom lip.
I can’t put Aurora, and writing Kelly is more than I can handle this morning. After the way he treated me yesterday—so sweet and kind—my guilt is exceedingly high about using a fake name. Acid bubbles up my throat at the thought.
“Just … put something,” I whisper, scribbling a final line.
Call me. Xo
I roll my eyes, realizing how ridiculous that sentiment is—considering he doesn’t know my name or my phone number—and toss the pen next to the paper.
On an exhale, I turn to leave and spot the blueberry pie on the couch. My stomach growls.
I glance at the bedroom door again before grabbing the pie. After carrying it to the small kitchenette, I locate a paper plate and a plastic knife. My handiwork looks more like a serial killer than a chef, but one slice finds its way to the plate. I carry it across the room and leave it with the note.