Which made me wonder whythey neededme, when they clearly had security figured out.
“Six foot three,” thereceptionist said, looking me up and down. “Andbuilt like aHemsworth. Mr. Emerson has great taste.”
I snorted, taking back mylicense when he offered it to me. “Bodyguards are a little more effective when theylooklike you shouldn’t screw withthem,” I said. Under other circumstances I would have flirted right back—thereceptionist was just my type, pretty-faced and coltish.
My mind flashed back toSaturday night’shookup. He’d been built the same way, anddamnhad he been hot.Today was Thursday, but I was still hoping he’d text me for anotherround, if he hadn’t left town by now. I could get used to being summoned tonice hotel rooms to get my cock sucked by pretty twinks.
Unfortunately for both meand the receptionist, I was trying my hand at professionalism today. So. Noflirting on the job.
I waited while he handed mea pass.
… and a slip of paper, whichI unfolded on the way to the elevator and found his number on. Chuckling tomyself, I tucked it into my wallet and hit the button for the fifth floor.
I’d never liked elevators.Small, enclosed spaces always made me hyper-aware of my height and the width ofmy shoulders, an irrational fear of getting stuck welling up in my gut. It wasn’tdebilitating or anything, I just liked to be in and out of them as quickly aspossible.
Which I guess was why I ranstraight into a man in huge glasses and a lab coat as I tried to step out ofthis one. I had to reach out and grab him by the front of it to stop him falling,the force of his collision with the solid wall of my chest enough to knock himoff-balance.
“Sorry,” I mumbled as I letgo of his coat. I’d startled the hell out of him, judging by the way his jawwas hanging as he stared at me.
“My fault, sir,” he said,gaze fixed on the scar through my eyebrow. For a nerdy little scientist, beinggrabbed by someone like me was probably terrifying.
I let him go, figuring thatwas the kindest thing I could do under the circumstances, and stepped out ofthe way of the elevator.
As soon as I looked up, mystomach dropped.
Holding a cup of coffee andlooking right at me was my Saturday night hookup.
I hadn’t run into twopeople called Miles in the one week.
I’d run into the same onetwice.
“Hello,” he said mildly. “Coffee?”
“Uh…”
What the fuck.
What the FUCK?
In protest, my brain packedits bags and kicked the door closed on its way out, leaving me stranded with noidea how to respond to the situation I was suddenly in.
I’d given him my businesscard, hadn’t I? So he’d have my number.
That really hadn’t seemed like adumb move at the time, and yet here we were. Staring at each other.
My brain sent me anillustrated postcard of him on his knees in front of me, pretty pink lipswrapped around my cock.
Stupid asshole brain.
“I don’t drink coffee,” Isaid, which was true, but not even remotely what I’d beenplanningon saying.
He hummed thoughtfully,looking me up and down.
Belatedly, I offered myhand. “GraysonWard,” I said. “You must be Mr. Emerson.”
Miles raised one expressiveeyebrow, pausing to sip from his drink. “I don’t think we need topretend we’re not already acquainted,” he said.
Right. Of course. Cool.
