But there’s nothing worse than a hookup that overstays his welcome. After I take care of business, I hold my breath and pull on my clothes, stifling the curses that threaten to slip out. Freaking rain. I manage to wiggle into my freezing-cold clothes,then I click off the light and head back into the room to find my wallet and phone.
As I pass the bed, I notice Willow is awake. She’s tucked the blankets up to her chin, and she’s watching me move through the dark. We don’t say anything, but as I slide into my shoes, something stops me.
I’m suddenly overcome by the desire to stay. To crawl right back into bed with her and go for round two—and then maybe go back to sleep. Through the muted light of the hotel room, I can just make out her eyes following me.
After my boots are on, I walk over to the bed. “Hey,” I whisper. “You awake?”
“Mostly,” she murmurs. I can make out her smile, even in the dark. “You taking off?”
As tempted as I am to stay, I nod, then lean down and brush the hair back from her face. I plant a light kiss on her lips, then her forehead. “You stay in bed,” I tell her, but before I can pull away, she reaches a hand from under the blankets and laces her fingers through mine. Wordlessly, she brings my hand to her lips and kisses the back of it. Then she lets go and turns over, snuggling down into the blanket.
I’m confused by the gesture. It’s not an invitation to come back to bed, but it’s tender and sweet.
I walk to the door, flip the dead bolt, and then realize once I leave, she’ll need to get up and flip the extra locks. “Willow,” I whisper, but my voice comes out louder than I intended. “Are you going to get up and lock this behind me?”
She’s quiet for a moment, and then I hear the rustling of blankets. She walks completely naked through the room, and as soon as I see the faint light seeping through the curtains from the parking lot and land on her body, my cock does its best to convince me that I don’t really have to go home. Her nipples are hard, and the memory of them in my mouth almost has mereaching for her. This was a perfect night, and I can’t break the unspoken rule of hookups.
Never let it mean too much.
Never overstay.
Never assume.
Fuck, done, and run.
She runs a hand along my arm and grins at me through the darkness. “Goodnight, Ben,” she says gently. It’s not a dismissal. In fact, she sounds a little reluctant, like she’s thinking about inviting me back to bed.
“You’ll lock this?” I ask, reaching for the doorknob.
“I will,” she assures me, her fingers tightening on my sleeve. Holding me back. Tempting me to consider staying. That means this is most definitely my sign to go.
My clothes have fully brought my body temperature down, and if I don’t get my ass onto my heated seat, I’m going to start shivering. I open the door a crack because, after all, she’s totally nude, and quickly step into the hall. Before I walk away, I block the doorway with my body so no one who might happen to pass by at this hour can see in. “You know where to find me,” I tell her, giving her a nod.
“Bruno’s,” she whispers. “Best kale ravioli ever.”
I almost choke on my laughter, but instead, I just shake my head, a grin on my face. “Benito’s,” I correct. “And it’s the bestdamnkale ravioli ever.”
We trade smiles, and for a moment, neither one of us moves. But then, I hear the ding of the elevator down the hall and figure she’d better shut the door before she flashes an unwitting housekeeper or guest.
I nod, wait for her to close and lock the door, then I head toward the elevator and out into the night.
I’m awakenedthe next morning by banging and shouting.
“Fuck.” I turn over in bed and jam a pillow over my head to muffle the noise. But I can still hear what sounds like giants bowling in the hallway outside my condo. I squint and grab my phone, about ready to call the property manager to send someone up to deal with this shit, when I notice the time. It’s after nine.
I have ten text notifications on my phone, but I am sure half of them are from Mags reminding me where to go, so I don’t bother reading them. I jump out of bed and bolt into the bathroom, mentally calculating how late I’ll be if I skip making coffee.
I fucking hate skipping morning coffee.
I hate rushing.
I hate being late.
All of this because I got home at three in the damned morning after…
The steam is fogging my bathroom mirror when I remember showering last night with Willow. Her body, her lips, her dripping hair. The way she squirmed and moaned as I rammed inside her.
Fuck.
