Maybe she was the serial killer here.
“How do I know you’re not trying to lure me back to your room for nefarious reasons?” The question needed to be asked. I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that I’d be content with whatever nefarious reasons she had.
“How about this?” She leaned forward and tapped my chest. “I’m five foot six. I put you at about six foot two. I weigh one hundred and thirty-two pounds. I bet you’re about one eighty. I’d like to say I’m an expert in Krav Maga or a black belt in Ju Jitsu, but that would be bullshit, and I am an expert in other things.” Her smile was every shade of wicked. “Any nefarious reasons do not include physical violence.”
“But you do have some?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
“I think I’m good with that.”
CHAPTER2
Otter
What was it about lifts?Or elevators as Americans like to call them? You put two people in a small, slightly mirrored space and any sense or sign of dignity are left on the previous floor.
Or in the bar. Which was where mine was right now.
Leonard – and I had absolutely no doubts that Leonard was not his name – had this whole Clark Kent thing going on, with his slightly damaged thick rimmed glasses and ripped jeans that had probably cost him fifteen quid at best, some supermarket’s finest. And with my hands pushing under his hoodie, and my legs wrapped around his waist, I could confirm he had a body that resembled Superman’s.
My hands had already found his abs and briefly assessed each one. I’d discovered his happy trail, that I fully intended to explore with my tongue at some point before we had dinner.
I was also enjoying the feeling of being held by arms I was pretty sure weren’t going to drop me any time soon, unlike last week, when one of my co-stars had become distracted by his ex, also on set, who randomly started kissing one of the extras.
Leonard wasn’t going to do that. Mainly because we were in a lift with no one else present, but also because he wasn’t a Hollywood actor with a whole abundance of extra confidence that had magicked itself into arrogance and an ego the size of Alaska. Plus, anyone who gave themselves the name Leonard just to play along had confidence of an entirely different sort.
It was me who stole the first kiss. There were two reasons for this: I knew he wasn’t going to be the one to kiss me first, because he was making sure he was being a gentleman, keeping it on my terms. The second was because I probably needed this more.
It had been five months since my body had enjoyed the actual, real-life experience of a man anywhere near it in a capacity that didn’t have a camera, make up brush or needle and thread alongside. So as soon as those lift doors had closed, I’d climbed him like a koala and made my intentions very, very clear.
In the words of people far trendier than me, I was down to fuck.
At first, he seemed stunned into stillness, but that lasted for all of two seconds, then his hands were on me in all the most deliciously inappropriate of places. My ass, my tits, the tops of my thighs, my back and underneath my bra strap. His fingers were everywhere, the tips of them electrifying my skin and making every inch feel as if he’d started a fire that was the slowest of burns, all about to combust at some point into a frantic inferno.
He gave me control of his mouth. Gave was certainly the right word, because I had a sneaking suspicion that he’d be taking that control right back.
Which happened when we hit the top floor, the home of the suite my agent had managed to wrangle. Somehow. Even though she hadn’t been able to say it was for me, because we were trying to keep my movements on the down low.
He carried me out of the lift, my legs hooked around his waist so my denim covered pussy could rub against his denim covered cock – there was far too much denim involved here – in a wanton fashion that my next character would be most disapproving of. (It was a sexed up Victorian romance for a streaming service that my grandmother was sure to think was my best work ever.)
“Which is yours?” It was a growl rather than actual speech.
“Number six.” I had no idea which door that was right now. We’d somehow managed to have his bit of luggage brought up here, before escaping for the lift, as his hands were always going to be desperately full with me.
“Key card?”
“Back pocket.”
This was by no means another excuse to have him feel my ass, but I was definitely glad it was where I’d stuffed the plastic thing before leaving the room. It was also a miracle I’d remembered the key card in the first place, and it was almost guaranteed I’d lose it at least three times before check out.
“Found it.”
He’d managed to get us to the door, which was now open, and through it, without dropping me or setting a fire alarm off – something I’d done once or twice in hotels – and I found myself on the humongous bed before I’d even registered he’d closed the door, too. In my defence, I was distracted by his shoulder muscles that I’d just discovered, wondering how exactly supportive they were.
It was fair to say I was getting a little hopeful, and maybe a little ahead of myself.
Leonard might just want to sit down and play cards.
