But instead of taking heed of the danger in his eyes and immediately getting up to leave, I lean back against the bed, making it clear I want more of what he has to offer.
As soon as my head hits the pillow, though, sleepiness overtakes me. My eyelids become weights against my eyes.
My eyes fall closed on their own accord.
“I won’t sleep long,” I mumble. My cheek tingles when he brushes his lips against it.
“I’ll wake you up.”
I crack one eyelid when the bed dips. Travis climbs out of the bed.
“I’ll let you sleep for a while, but you and I are far from finished.” He squeezes my ass, pulling a small smirk from me.
A slight tremor courses through me as he drags his finger down my ass along my leg, reaching my toes.
“Hey,” he calls.
I peer over at him.
“What do you know? You don’t have six toes.” He squeezes my pinky toe.
I watch for a few more seconds as Travis saunters into the bathroom.
The last thing I remember before drifting off into a dreamless sleep is watching the perfectly rounded ass disappearing into the bathroom.
Even his ass is beautiful.
Hours later, I awaken to sunlight streaming through the bedroom’s curtains. When I look to Travis’ side of the bed it’s empty. For a brief moment, I wonder if last night was a dream.
But Travis is definitely real.
The spicy, masculine scent of him lingers on everything in this bed, including my skin.
Not to mention the soreness between my legs.
That, and the memories from the two, no three, or was it four rounds we engaged in last night?
At some point I lost count of the many, many orgasms he showered upon my body.
“Travis?” I call out.
Nothing.
I try a second time, and once again, my answer is silence. My chest tightens with something dark, reminding me of the carefully constructed wall I keep around my heart.
It’s there for a reason.
“This is why I don’t date good-looking guys,” I mumble as I climb, read: stumble, out of the bed.
Then I admonish myself for being annoyed. We said it was only a one-night thing. He probably left, hoping I’ll be gone before he returns.
I have no problem making that happen.
On legs that I have to coach into moving, and a body that feels as if it’s been put through the washing machine, I force myself to search for my clothing. My bra hangs off of an armchair by the window, while my panties lay in a tangled mess on the carpet at the foot of the bed.
One boot sits in the middle of the suite’s living room while the other somehow managed to find its way underneath the couch. Lastly, my dress, thankfully, remains intact and laid neatly across the back of the suite’s couch.
I get dressed, save for my ruined panties, and take one final sweep of the suite with my gaze before heading for the door. If Travis couldn’t be so much as bothered to leave a note, there’s obviously no need for me to do so.
