‘That’s just about the best celebration I can imagine,’ he says, after a beat that’s just long enough to make my nerves stretch tight. ‘Let’s go, darlin’.’
Beau
When I was younger, I’d have taken Bailey in the back seat of my truck, right after a ride like that too. I want to say that at twenty-eight, I have more self-control, but the truth is my body’s stiffer, sorer, the ride’s taken more of a toll, so even when I want to fuck her halfway to Sunday here and now, I know the best thing is to get back to the room and take a long, hot shower to ease some ofmy tortured muscles. I can feel a pull in my side from that last buck and how hard I had to hold on to keep control.
I toss the keys toward the valet’s gloved hand when I pull up in front of the hotel, and believe me, I’m itching to grab Bailey and drag her to my room, but her insistence on this being behind closed doors rings in my ears. So too her concerns about her job, and what it would mean if anyone found out she’d slept with someone she was profiling. Sex shouldn’t screw up anyone’s life.
‘What’s your room number?’ I ask, as we wait for the lift.
She glances up at me. ‘Four thirteen.’
I nod once. ‘Give me thirty minutes.’
A frown briefly flickers across her face. Disappointment.
‘I stink.’ I grin, not wanting to admit that my body’s pulled up rough. I don’t go in for macho bullshit, but at the same time I hardly want to tell a woman I’m about to take to bed that my side has an owie.
‘You really don’t,’ she promises.
We step into the elevator. Just the two of us, in a confined space, so the sound of our raw, frantic breathing is all I can hear. It soars up to the fifth floor. I realise belatedly she didn’t press the button for her own.
‘I’ll wait for you to shower,’ she suggests impishly.
Maybe there’s a reason she doesn’t want me going to her room? Maybe there’s a reason for a lot of things? It doesn’t matter though. Bailey’s here, with me, and I’m not about to fuck that up.
I brush my fingers over hers as we step out of the lift, but still don’t take her hand the way I want to. Desperation to touch andfeel her is a serious temptation though. I swipe the card to my room, push the door in with one hand, holding it open, ignoring the tightening in my abdominal wall.
‘Thanks.’ She flicks a smile at me as she passes. I return it. Mine’s more relaxed, more practised. Whatever else she is, Bailey James is not someone who does this kind of thing often. That’s as clear as the day is long. It makes something inside of me soar with privilege, with heat and need. To be rare to her. To be someone she wants enough to break her rules, to go against what she knows sheshoulddo.
I step in after her and push the door closed, then toe out of my boots, leaving them neatly at the door. She walks toward the window first, looking out at the view of the hotel swimming pool.
Hell, if I don’t want to just storm over there and start making out, to rip those fancy-ass clothes from her body and see what’s underneath. ‘Gimme ten minutes,’ I mutter, before I can give in to temptation and start something I know I won’t be able to stop.
‘How ’bout I give you five,’ she replies with a teasingly arched brow, so I laugh, low and soft, as I step into the spacious bathroom with its Mexican-style tiles.
I hit the water and start it running, all hot. Steam fills the room as I undress, wincing again, turning to check the site of pain in the mirror. There’s no bruising, it’s just tight. I work my fingers over it, ignoring the throbbing ache, then move into the stream of water, angling my body so the jets hit the muscle, and keep working it with my hand. Better. I lather up and wash all over, then step out, drying off before wrapping the fluffy white hotel towel low on my hips.
I mean, I contemplate pulling clothes on, but what would be the point?
Feeling like a whole new man, I head out into the main room. Bailey’s turned on the TV to some music station. The volume’s low, the songs unmistakably soulful and country. She’s also helped herself to the minibar, making a little picnic out of some nuts, chips and a bottle of wine.
‘A celebration,’ she reminds me, holding out a glass. But her hand trembles a little and her eyes drop to my chest, like she’s never seen a naked guy before.
‘No better way,’ I reiterate, walking across the carpeted room for the glass she offers. I hold her gaze as I take a sip, see how her own throat shifts like she’s swallowing. Breath tightens in my lungs.
‘You were incredible.’ Genuine admiration softens her voice. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t win.’
I roll my shoulders. ‘He was better.’
‘Another time, I need you to explain to me how and why. You looked as though you owned that bull. Like he was afraid of you—and pissed as hell about it.’
I laugh again, the sound coming from deep in my throat.
‘Yeah, he was pissed alright.’
She sips her wine, then places it on the counter. ‘Does it hurt?’
My eyes probe hers. ‘Losing?’
