Speaking of which...
“Ready?” I ask when her laughter ebbs.
“For what?”
“To go upstairs.”
She cocks an eyebrow. Poor choice of words.
When she doesn’t answer, I add: “If you’ll have me.”
Her mouth quirks. “That an invitation or a question?”
“Both.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the stairs. Leading me like one of those Instagram reels. The kind where some woman drags an unseen man through luxury hotels and beaches while the algorithm eats it up.
Except this isn’t for content. This is just for us.
And that makes it so much fucking better.
She looks over one shoulder at me. “Your staff are gone?”
“For the evening,” I agree. “And tomorrow morning.”
“Sneaky.” She opens the door to the main suite. I follow her inside.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say.
Her mouth quirks. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now? Using the bathroom?”
That makes me laugh. “Seriously. I have to take a leak.”
She shrugs, taunting: “Hurry back.”
I go to the en suite bathroom. Once my cock calms down, I take a long piss. Then I wash my hands and stare at myself in the mirror and try to remember why this is a terrible idea.
Come up blank.
When I return to the room, she’s standing by the window. Still in that sweater. Still devastating.
“You good?” she asks without turning around.
“Getting there.”
She turns. Studies me. “What do you need?”
Loaded question.
What do I need?
Her. Naked. In my hands. Under my control. Trusting me to take her apart and put her back together.
That’s what I fucking need.
But what I say is, “You. If you’re offering.”
She reaches up. Unclasps her bracelet. Walks over and drops it into my palm.
