"You started this, Dom. You, and me, and hard feelings, and tequila."
I look up into her eyes, her heated gaze staring back at me. She's right.
Truth be told, I don't know how elevators work. Is there an intercom system? Can somebody's voice penetrate this moment? Ask us if we're ok, why we've stopped the elevator? Someone somewhere must have been notified the emergency button was pushed.
As much as I would love to settle between Cecily's legs, worship her the way I want to, there isn't time.
Hauling those criminally sexy underwear aside, I'm met with my first full glimpse of a part of Cecily my hand is well-acquainted with. She's lovely, and later, when she's on her back in bed, I'll learn every inch of her. Right now is about going from zero to one hundred.
I lean in, pressing my mouth to Cecily. She moans indecently. I don't know where our elevator has stopped, but if it is anywhere near a floor opening, somebody would know precisely what we're doing.
Hitching one of her legs over my shoulder, I make another pass over her. Once. Twice. She's so responsive, so ready, fingernails dragging over my scalp. I love how open she is, how much she's enjoying it. Making Cecily lose her mind is extra-special, she's?—
"It's hot," Cecily says.
"I know," I murmur against her. If I get my way, I'll be coming up with more hot shenanigans for the two of us for the duration of this trip.
"No, no. Dom." Her panicked voice has me pulling away. "It'shot."
She's pointing down at herself. I look at her center, glistening and perfect, calling my name.
"Burning," she explains, pain in her voice.
"How—"
She gasps. "You were eating habanero salsa."
I pale. No. That can't be. But I was. Despite what I told Cecily about being able to make conversation with anybody, I was nervous to be at dinner with Glenn and Duke without Cecily as a buffer. I ate copious chips and salsa.
Letting go of Cecily's underwear, I cover her back up, tugging her skirt down. She's biting the side of her lip, pressing her legs together.
I feel terrible. All I wanted was to bring her pleasure, and instead I've brought her pain.
I hit the button for our floor, and the elevator moves. Problem-solving mode activated. "We need milk," I tell her, already thinking about the store I saw earlier. A quaint place called Mercantile.
"What the hell am I supposed to do with milk? Drink it?"
"Sit in it. It counteracts the capsaicin from the pepper."
The elevator opens, and Cecily steps off. "Are you coming?" She's grimacing, her knees pressed together.
"I'm going for milk. Lots of milk." I hit the down button. "Get undressed and wait for me in the tub."
It feels like forever, but it's probably only ninety seconds before I'm out front of the hotel and jogging toward Mercantile.
The place is still open. There is a refrigerated section in the back, and I hustle toward it, grabbing as many handles of gallon-size whole milk as I can carry.
"You're either having an emergency with a calf, or a cookie party," the woman at the register deadpans.
"I can neither confirm nor deny," I say with a tight smile as I pay with my phone.
"Good luck," she says.
I thread my fingers through the handles and thank her.
Bringing my arms into my chest as if doing a bicep curl, I hurry back to the hotel. If it weren't for the group of people gathered near the elevator, I wouldn't have to put on the brakes.
"Dom, are you aware you're carrying"—Duke stops to count—"six gallons of milk?"
