Mr. GQ it is.
“So I don’t get to know the name of the man who claims he’s going to give me twelve orgasms? The man who called himself myboyfriendon more than one occasion tonight?” I ask in a hushed tone, keeping our conversation as private as possible.
“Are you telling me the most orgasms you’ve had in one night is four, Snow?” He nudges his shoulder with mine, and I want to ask him about the nickname he’s decided to call me, but I want to slam him up against the nearest wall and have my way with him more. “Because I’ve got to say…that’s pretty disappointing.” He watches me closely for a reaction, but my expression doesn’t change.
“Disappointing for who, exactly? Because I was pretty satisfied,” I tease, nudging him back, and he quakes a brow, not believing a single thing I’d just said.
“Is that the mostyou’vegiven yourself, or at the hands of somebody else?” He asks while looking at me, his dark eyes focused on mine, and I don’t notice the crowd around us growing until it’s already there.
“I—”dammit.
“That’s what I thought.”
The doors to the elevator finally open, and we ride it to his floor without another word said between us. It’s at capacity, with everyone awkwardly touching the person beside them in some way. He and I are standing so close to each other that he could slide his hand beneath my dress, and no one would even notice.
I can already feel the warmth pooling between my legs.
“This is me,” he finally says once we reach the seventh floor, leaving behind an old man carrying his suit jacket folded over his arm. He looks as though he needs water and Tylenol, like yesterday.
Smiling an awkward goodbye to the strange, older gentleman, I step out of the elevator and walk to the room he holds the door open for, and I hesitate before my legs take the step inside without my go-ahead.
I don’t get the chance to take in my surroundings before he spins me to face him, his lips crashing down on mine in aninstant, ripping the air from my lungs, and a light whimper barely escapes the back of my throat.
His hands remain gripped on my shoulders before his fingertips glide up the sides of my neck, his thumbs moving to caress my cheeks.
It feels like he’s holding the entire weight of my body in the palm of his hands, and I hate how light it makes me feel—almost like I’m floating.
I don’t even know his name.
His hands slowly move down my back, fingers picking up speed as he attempts to find a zip, our mouths continuing to explore each other’s.
Our tongues fight for victory, but it’s not messy. It’s frantic—and God dammit—it’s necessary.
His tongue sweeps my bottom lip before he nibbles on it, trickling kisses across my jaw. His stubble is rough against my skin. All the while his hands still move feverishly in search of a way to take the dress off me.
“The zip is on…” I try to say through heavy breaths, but he cuts me off.
“Fuck it,” he mutters to himself and to me, my body stiffening when I hear the loudestripsound I’ve ever heard in my life.
That’s when I feel the material of my black, satin dress pooling at my feet, ripped completely down the middle. “Oops.” He chuckles, his hands immediately on my bare skin. My dress is ruined, and I’m going to have to walk the streets of California in my bra and underwear when I leave.
Fantastic.
If that wasn’t the hottest thing any man has ever done to me, I would be fucking pissed that the only word he said in replace of an apology was ‘oops’.
Two can play at that game.
He claims my mouth again with his, and I place my open palms on his cotton-covered chest, using just the right amount of force to push him backward slowly, until they hit the base of the bed. He sits on the edge of it voluntarily, a deep grumble vibrating through his chest when our lips part.
I rip straight down the middle of what I imagine is a very expensive shirt. His buttons fly off in every direction, hitting the walls, the window, the lampshade, and the tiny dining table in the room's corner.
“Oops,” I say with a smirk.
“I deserved that.”
Chapter four
Jenna
