“I think you need to go back to bed rest,” he said, holding me close, his arms crossing my rib cage, “if we’re going to continue this treatment.”
I let myself lean back against him, boneless in the aftermath, while he kissed my neck and shoulders, and then I was tucked back into bed and my real temperature taken.
“It’s well down,” he said. “For some reason. I would have expected that kind of treatment to elevate it. But what do I know? I’m not a doctor.”
“Hey,” I croaked. “You aren’t? So...what was that?”
His wickedest smile shone down on me.
“That was for your own good,” he said. “Now I’m going to call your doctor and ask what he recommends for girls who are well enough to be taken vigorously up the ass yet who protest that they can’t go back to work yet.”
“No you aren’t, you swine!”
“Yes I am. Or rather, no I’m not. Because I know what he’d say. I know what he’d write on his prescription form. Something painful involving your behind and my hand, I suspect. So you’d better get some rest while I work my strength up.”
I pouted, but I felt blissfully, floatingly sleepy.
“Thank you,” I yawned. “You might not be a doctor, but I think I’m cured.”
He leaned over and kissed my forehead, his blue eyes earnest as he drew back.
“I’m very glad to hear it,” he said. “Gladder than you know.”
I know he hates it when I’m ill, but I don’t think it’s all about control and inconvenience. I think it’s mostly about love.
GUEST SERVICES
Angela Caperton
Joanna Danvers checked her watch again, the third time in the past hour. Maybe he had canceled late. Severe weather in the Northeast had caused more than one Suite Rewards guest to change their plans and their reservations.
Damn. Her heart constricted at the thought that Thomas Wolburn might not check in today. This was it; this was Joanna’s last weekend at Suite Rewards Miami. On Wednesday, she’d pack her Focus with everything she could fit into it, leave her furniture to the mercy of movers, and head north to Atlanta and Suite Rewards’ corporate headquarters. She’d done it. After six years of busting her ass, first as the concierge and then as manager of guest services at the busy Suite Rewards Executive Hotel Miami, she’d been promoted to regional manager. Yes, she’d be back to Miami, but she’d also be in Savannah, Jacksonville, Tampa, Mobile, Orlando, and several other southern locations—but most often in her office in Atlanta.
Thomas Wolburn would no longer be the steady fixation of her lustful dreams. His clockwork stays at Suite Rewards Miami, three times a year for the past four years, had helped kill two vibrators in Joanna’s nightstand. Part of her loved him, loved his smile, even after a six-hour delay in his flights, loved his wit and intelligence, plus he had an ass to make women drool. She knew he wasn’t conventionally handsome—a faded scar from forehead to jaw dropped his left eyelid to near closing and his nose was crooked, but Joanna would have gladly sold her soul to have his minty-green eyes look at her lustfully, or to have him kiss her, his lips so generous she sometimes wondered if he patronized Botox clinics. She had fantasized many times about those full lips locked around her nipples or rubbing against her clit.
The job in Atlanta had been a fantasy too. She still chafed at the comment made at her interview by Les Grinion. “Joanna, you could have had this job a lot sooner if you’d had the nerve to take it.”
Nerve to take it. Hadn’t that been the story of her life? When had she ever just taken something? She never stepped outside her safety zone, never threw caution to the wind and just took something for herself.
Life just happened to her. She’d become a wife because Mark had asked and because she didn’t think anyone else would. Five years later, divorced and up to her gills in debt, she took a desk clerk job at Suite Rewards because it had been the first thing she had been offered. She worked diligently and, when their concierge quit, she had been assigned to cover his desk until a replacement could be found. Joanna learned five months later they never posted the position. She’d been promoted, and no one had even bothered to tell her. Until she mentioned it tentatively, her title and pay hadn’t changed.
Once she knew that she wasn’t just a placeholder, she owned the position. She charmed entertainment and restaurant contacts in South Beach, Little Havana, and other hot spots in Miami, made sure the hotel was on the lodging list for every appropriate event, maintained an aggressive local events calendar on the Suite Rewards website, and made sure guests were emailed important notices in advance. She developed inside sources, like the one who helped her get courtside seats to a Miami Heat playoff game for an important guest. She was good at her job, and she enjoyed it.
And she loved it every time Thomas Wolburn, on his periodic visits, joined her for a drink in the hotel bar after hours. It had become a ritual, even after she’d been promoted to Guest Services manager. She closed the restaurant at 1 A.M. and stayed there with him, behind the bar, pouring drinks for both of them. The first time had been an accident. Joanna had been filling in for one of the desk clerks when Tom came in at closing time, looking tired. After that, the post-midnight liaisons had become a delightful ritual between them.
Those quiet conversations over good bourbon had fueled Joanna’s infatuation and her lust. She began to regard Tom’s visits like paid vacations to Hollywood. He was certainly her favorite guest and, as strange as it seemed, her best friend.
He liked Josh Ritter’s music, and he smoked cigars on very special occasions. He hated having his birthday the week before Christmas and on one overindulgent night, halfway into a bottle of Russell’s Reserve, he told her about the accident that scarred him and almost killed his sister, how he’d been driving and arguing with her about which radio station to listen to.
That night, cotton-soft and warmly flush, she took his hand, thrilled at his skin against hers. She wanted to invite herself up to his room. She wanted to fuck him very, very much, but she choked on the words, her mind dizzy with possibilities, risk analysis, the probability of complete humiliation. She didn’t have any condoms with her. Would he? No, no. No condoms, no go. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow, she’d bring a jumbo pack of Trojans and they’d fuck the night away. Yes, yes. She’d just wait, and tomorrow she’d offer him some exclusive hotel services.
Yes.
No. The next night, as Joanna lingered at the concierge desk, ostensibly checking guest requests, she watched Tom leave with a tall, svelte woman who could have been Miss Brazil 2010—long black hair, eyelashes to die for, dark eyes and full lips that must have graced at least one fashion magazine. If there hadn’t been boxes under her desk, Joanna would have crawled under it.
The Trojans rescinded to the very back of her bottom desk drawer, under padded half-sized envelopes and behind a dog-eared copy of Delta of Venus.
When next Tom visited, she joined him for a drink, but she didn’t even think about trying to seduce him. No, better to tackle him only in her fantasies, to tear his clothes off, suck his cock until he begged her to fuck him, then she would mercilessly ride him until she was good and ready to come. Maybe she’d let him come then. Maybe. Fuck the Brazilians.
After that, his visits had been pleasant, and her desire for him had remained undimmed and unfulfilled, but she had never again considered crossing the line between friendship and bare flesh. And now time was running out.
The nerve to take it. What did that mean? She glanced at the clock at the corner of her monitor screen. The nerve to take it. Nerve that didn’t guarantee she’d get what she wanted, just that she’d had the courage to reach for it.
Yes, she’d need nerve if she was going to rip Les Grinion’s job from under his tasseled shoes. The Atlanta office was a cutthroat place to work. She’d need smarts, timing, and nerve. It was one thing to plan, it was another to execute, and fear of failure was not an acceptable excuse. That was Les’s unwitting gift to her—that kernel of rea
lization, and she had every intention of making it his final condescension.
Just like the job, Tom Wolburn was something—someone—she wanted, and this would be the last time she could count on seeing him. She had to do this. She had to reach out, to bridge the distance between their clasped hands, to turn confidence and comfort into sex. She had to, even knowing he’d almost certainly reject her. That was Les’s message. Executives took risks—sure, they weighed profit against loss and sometimes they guessed wrong, but those who succeeded took risks!
She had to put herself out there. Joanna knew if she left Miami without even trying to hook up with Tom, she’d not only regret it all her life, the regional manager’s desk in Atlanta would be the terminal point in her career.
The warm tap of shoes on the marble foyer drew her out of her thoughts. Tom! There he was, the back of his suit jacket creased from hours of sitting, and he looked as if he’d shrunk a couple inches. The bolt of concern singed more than her heart. Recurrent guests passed through lives beyond her knowing, and she had seen more than one decline between visits, eroded by health or misfortune. No, he couldn’t be one of those.
She waited patiently as he checked in, and before he turned away from front desk, she’d stepped into his path, her skirt standard uniform, her blouse sheer to show off the embroidered bustier under the black silk.
“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes.” He looked as though he meant his words as he took Joanna’s arm, gripping it in friendly possession as he kissed first her check and then her lips, a warm but chaste kiss.
“And here I am—just for you,” Joanna returned the kiss. “I’ve learned over my years in Guest Services that the best way to find out what a customer wants is to ask directly.” She pressed tight against Thomas, unconcerned about the desk clerk who mechanically finished processing Tom’s reservation. “What do you want, sir?” she whispered against his ear.
She absorbed the stiffness of his body. The awkward words would come any second, the no’s and stumbled, polite dismissals, the adjustment of the distance between them. Maybe he’d say he really liked her as a friend and that sex would ruin things. Maybe he’d confess to being married/engaged/seeing someone, or—she grinned against his shoulder—he’d tell her regretfully that he was gay. The rejection would come, but it would be all right. She’d taken the chance.
He pulled her closer, and she imagined his comfortable business mind melting and mixing into goo as her pussy pressed against his thigh, and…his cock stiffened.
“I want you,” he whispered against her ear.
She blinked, her bones suddenly marble, her skin the thinnest sheet of breath that burst into hot sensation where his fingers held her against him. That was a yes—he’d said yes. That wasn’t supposed to happen!
Could she unbury the condoms in less than 2.6 seconds, and what the hell did this mean in the grand scheme of her… scheme?
“Come with me,” she breathed against his chin. She’d take him to her office, manage a moderately graceful excavation of the condoms, and then they’d fuck on her desk. All she had to do was toss the two copier paper boxes filled with her personal mementos to the floor and they’d have a wide plane to play upon. Maybe he’d bend her over the edge, fuck her mercilessly from behind. What if he slapped her ass?
Her pussy creamed.
“No,” he exhaled, the quiet tone reaching the tenor of a growl. “I want my bed turned down. Personally.”
She nodded, a bob of her head she doubted anyone would have seen. That was her job. Guest Services. Yep, turning down beds was right up her alley.
“Of course, sir,” she purred.
“Naked.”
The pulse of arousal that blasted her core nearly brought her to her knees—not that the vantage of her face level with his crotch would have been unwelcome, but she still wanted to keep some level of dignity.
“After you, sir,” she said, her throat dry even as her cunt continued to slick.
He grinned, a lopsided expression that constricted her heart. He put his arm around her waist and walked to the elevator. Joanna glanced at the front desk. Martin, the college kid they’d hired that spring, was staring at her as if she were a three-headed alien.
All she could do was smile.
Tom’s room was on the top floor. They had the elevator to themselves and, when the doors closed, their bodies merged. His mouth devoured her, tongue insistent, hot, demanding, tangling with hers, suppressing it, dominating it even as she grappled with him, losing herself in the sensations his kiss invoked. She felt the heat of his body in one long, glorious line of firm muscle and strength. His cock pressed hard into her thigh, and she could not wait to have it in her.
He pushed her against the back of the elevator, pulling up her skirt, greedy fingers stroking her thighs, finding her panties, and sliding beyond the thin lace to her soaked pussy.
He groaned, his kiss deepening further, and Joanna answered his arousal by gripping his ass, longing for the firm flesh to be free of his trousers. Boxers or briefs, what would it be?
The chime rang almost mute beneath their panting and groping, but when the doors opened, Joanna moaned against Tom’s mouth, pushing him toward the gate, closer to fulfillment.
His fingers circled her clit.
The suction of the kiss broke as she pushed him, grinding her hips against his hand, gasping for air. He stepped back, their dance made of steps banned by Arthur Murray. His heel caught on the metal lip of the elevator as they stumbled back, balance completely lost until his thighs hit the back of the sofa in the elevator landing. Golden wallpaper with subtle fleur-de-lis appliqués rose to a ceiling dominated by a tasteful, frosted light fixture. Several other upholstered chairs, end tables, and two huge vases filled with fresh flowers furnished the little lobby.
He spun, a final effort to save both of them a tumble over the couch back. When Joanna’s butt hit the top of the sofa she welcomed the full weight of him, the momentum of their fall pressing him harder into her. Her lips found his again, ravenous, drawing his flesh into her even as his fingertips stroked the folds of her pussy and slid easily into her. Electric bites of pleasure zapped her nerves, spreading heat and sensation through her. Her hips ground against his hand spastically, graceless, but honest and greedy.
Tom continued to press her against the back of the sofa, pulling her skirt up, her panties down. He took his hand from her clit long enough to pull her blouse free of the waistband of her skirt, reaching under it, under her lace bra to her breasts, cupping them as if he weighed them, testing her hard nipples, circling the tips until she panted. He pulled back just enough to turn her away from him, so that his cock bumped her butt. He pinned her, holding her still, and when he took his hands from her, she felt like a boiling pot with the fire suddenly turned off.
The crinkle and tear of plastic registered moments before his hands again found her skin, one stroking the curve of her ass, the other stroking up the crack of her pussy, teasing her, spreading her.
The stroke of his cock head along her pussy lips nearly shoved her over the edge. Coated in her juices, he pressed into her from behind, his cock thick, hard and gloriously filling. His exhalation bordered on a moan, and with his balls slapping her butt, he paused, buried deep.
Joanna drew a constricted breath that barely seemed real. She was doing it. She was getting fucked by Tom Wolburn. Another elevator might arrive at any moment, or someone might emerge from the hall into the lobby, but she was beyond caring.
His first few strokes were slow, testing, and amazingly smooth. She savored every inch, her nerves blooming beyond physical stimulation but into something so intense it seemed almost artificial, like some glorious drug that dulled mundane cares and magnified bliss. The beat increased rapidly, his cock splitting her, taking her, marking her, a precise pattern of stretching nerves and tearing lust that left her powerless to do anything other than brace her arms on the seat of the sofa and take it.
Her clit bumped and bumped again
st the edge of the sofa, adding another layer of pleasure and as orgasm rose in her, she squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lower lip against the scream so near to utterance.
Gold walls melted to crystal. Her ears rang with the scuff of the sofa as Tom’s thrust pushed it into the coffee table. The shudder began at her knees and overwhelmed her body as the orgasm rocketed through her. Her locked elbows buckled, and her face met the back cushion of the couch.
She just knew her muffled scream could be heard down in the main lobby.
He pulled her back against him and gave three more hard, rapid pumps before he huffed, made a sound that resembled a gurgle, then folded over her, panting into her spine.
She couldn’t move, didn’t want to move. He kissed her back at the edge of her disheveled blouse, his hand reaching around her middle to hug her, a contented, but possessive hold that frosted the fading edges of her orgasm, sweet and rich.
He started to shake, then his chuckle cut through her fuzzy curiosity.
“Fuck.”
She grinned into the cushion. “Accurate.”
“No. I forgot my suitcase at the front desk.” He pulled out of her, his softened cock leaving her suddenly hollow.
She stood up, her muscles protesting after her prolonged half-crunch. She turned, pulling her shirt and skirt down and watched him wrap the used condom in his handkerchief.
She pushed at her hair and grinned at him.
“No problem. Go on to your room. I’ll bring your luggage up.”
She stepped up to him and gave him a playful kiss. “And, of course, I’ll see about that turn-down service.”
He squeezed her waist and grinned. “Hurry.”
And she did, riding back down to the lobby, her heart racing, the glow at her center far more than just the result of good sex. Maybe this was what nerve felt like, the illumination of possibility, the reward worth any risk. She found his suitcase at the desk, gave Martin a wink, and caught the elevator back up.
Best Erotic Romance Page 8
