"Wait here," he says, leaving me by a cluster of leather chairs while he approaches the front desk.
I watch him move, noting the way the desk clerk's entire demeanor changes when he speaks. Whatever he's saying, whoever he is, it carries weight. The clerk nods eagerly, produces a key card with flourish, and gestures toward the elevators like he's directing royalty.
He returns and takes my hand without a word, leading me toward the elevators. I should ask questions. Should demand to know who he really is and why hotel staff treat him like visiting nobility. Instead, I let him guide me into the elevator and watch as he slides the key card and presses the button for the top floor.
The penthouse.
"Seriously?" I turn to stare at him. "The penthouse?"
His mouth curves in that almost-smile. "Problem, Red?"
"I just—" I gesture helplessly at the elevator buttons, at him, at the absurdity of the situation. "Kevin the accountant doesn't spring for penthouse suites."
"Maybe Kevin the accountant has hidden depths."
The elevator climbs smoothly. I'm acutely aware of how small the space is. How close he's standing. How his cologne—something expensive and masculine—is making my head spin in ways that have nothing to do with the whiskey.
When the doors open, I step into a suite that's bigger than my entire apartment.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the glittering Chicago skyline. The living area is all white with pops of black and red. Through an archway, I catch a glimpse of a bedroom that looks like it belongs in a luxury magazine.
"Fuck," I breathe, moving toward the windows. The city spreads out below us, a carpet of lights and possibilities.
My hand drifts to my stomach before I catch myself. I've been doing that constantly since the test came back positive—this unconscious protective gesture I can't seem to stop. I force my hand back to my side. He can't know. Not yet. Not until I figure out what kind of man he really is.
"You don't like it?" His voice is closer than I expected. When I turn, he's right behind me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"It's beautiful," I admit. "It's just—this isn't what I was expecting."
"What were you expecting?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. What was I expecting? A modest hotel room with questionable art and a bathroom the size of a closet? It feels a little wasteful to rent a penthouse for what I know will probably last maybe an hour.
Unless he plans on making this an all-night thing.
Am I up for that?
"Something smaller," I say finally. "Something more... normal."
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "Nothing about tonight is normal."
The touch sends electricity through my veins. I should step back, should maintain some semblance of the control I pride myself on. Instead, I lean into his touch.
"No," I whisper. "It's not."
That's when he kisses me.
It's not tentative or questioning. It's claiming. Demanding. The kind of kiss that short-circuits rational thought. His mouth moves against mine with a dominance that makes my knees weak. I find myself gripping his jacket to keep from melting into a puddle at his feet.
When he finally pulls back, I'm breathless and dizzy and completely lost.
"Still thinking about normal?" he asks, his voice rough with want.
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
His smile is slow and predatory. "Good."
His hands find the zipper of my dress. The sound of it sliding down seems impossibly loud in the quiet suite. The fabric pools at my feet, leaving me standing there in my ridiculous Spanx and heels.
