The drag of his tongue.
The rasp in his voice when he told her to open her mouth.
Her lips parted again without her even realizing it.
But the fantasy was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Wrapped in a thick white robe, hair dripping down her back, she hurried across the suite and cracked the door open.
“I didn’t order anything,” she said, confused.
The hotel attendant smiled. “No, ma’am. Mr. Stone placed a scheduled delivery for this morning.”
Claire blinked.
Of course he did.
She took the tray with a polite thank you, then spotted a few neatly placed bills beside the sitting chair. Jaxon had already tipped. Already thought of everything.
“That man,” she whispered with a breathy laugh, shutting the door behind her. “He really does think of everything.”
She carried the tray into the kitchen and set it down at the counter. Slipping onto the stool, still swaddled in her robe, she lifted the cloche.
Her eyebrows rose.
French press coffee. Warm, flaky pastries. Eggs. Bacon. Fruit. Jam. And some kind of croissant that looked like it belonged in a Parisian café.
Claire had stayed in nice hotels before.
She’d had room service.
But this? This was something else.
This was curated.
This was personal.
By the time she finished, only a few decorative sprigs of greens were left on the plate. She covered the tray again and leaned back, full and still dizzy from all of it.
She glanced at the clock.
Still time.
“I could hop back in and finish my shower,” she said to no one—but smiled at the thought anyway.
Back in the water, steam rising around her, Claire leaned against the tile and closed her eyes. The memory of last night mixed with the feeling of this morning.
It wasn’t just sex.
It wasn’t just breakfast.
It was him.
Could you imagine… this being your life?
That thought hit harder than it should’ve.
And the thing that really shook her?
