Copyright © 2018 by Simone Sowood
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Pierce Me
Lip Service
Carnal
Chapter 1
Elsie
“You have the ass of a goddess,” Isabel says, touching up my mascara.
Somehow, I let my best friend, Isabel, talk me into taking boudoir photos. She couldn’t afford to do them for herself on her own, but a local photographer was having a two-for-one sale and she nagged and pestered me until I gave in.
And now here I am in one of our hotel rooms wearing a red corset, thong and black pull-up stockings my ex-boyfriend gave me ages ago, plus a pair of sky-high heels. All during work hours, no less.
“Seriously, you look amazing, Elsie,” Isabel says, placing her hands on my bare shoulders and squaring me to her. She’s still in her bathrobe and hasn’t revealed her outfit yet.
“I’d better because I can’t imagine doing this again,” I say.
“Just think, you will be young and beautiful for all eternity. You’re going to be so happy you did this,” she says, her freckled nose crinkling and her dark eyes shining with excitement.
I glance around the hotel room and my eyes land on the perfectly made bed, complete with several silver accent pillows that match the color scheme of the room. When Isabel makes a bed, you can bounce a nickel off it. Although right now I’m not even sure if the bed stays made or not. I have no idea how these things work.
My boss Cynthia had better never find out. How on earth would I ever explain this?
Yes, I know I’m on work hours and that we haven’t paid for the hotel room and that we are using it to take risqué photos during work hours, but it’s all good, I promise.
Yeah, right. Cynthia isn’t exactly the nicest boss in the world.
Isabel would have an even harder time, since she’s a cleaner here at Good Rest Inn. I got her the job while she studies marketing at community college.
At least I’m an assistant manager and can probably get away with more. Not that I want to test that theory out. The last thing I would want to do is risk my career. At twenty-six, I’m already the youngest assistant manager in the region and I hope to be promoted to manager when Cynthia moves on to her next hotel in the Good Rest Inn chain. She hates living in Trenton, New Jersey and is desperately trying to get transferred somewhere warm like California or Florida. Anywhere but here, she says.
“Who are these photos for? I don’t even have a boyfriend,” I say, grabbing the tops of her arms and giving her a playful shake.
“Who cares? You’re going to have these photographs forever. Even you are bound to have a boyfriend at some point in your life.”
“Fat chance,” I say, breaking our hold on each other and turning away. I haven’t been able to tell her the big fear that’s been hanging over me for the last couple of years. I’m hoping I’m being paranoid about things, but if I’m not then there’s no way I will ever have a boyfriend. I bury the thought deep inside me.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Hell, if you want a man all you have to do is walk through the lobby right now looking like that.”
“If I walk through the lobby right now looking like this people would ask me how much.”
“You’d make good money if you wanted. I’m serious, look at you.” Isabel grabs me and spins me to the full-length mirror that hangs on the wall between the white door and the glossy black desk. My wavy brown hair flies across my face, and I brush it out of my eyes.
“First off, your eyes are striking. I mean, how many people have green eyes?”
“No one’s looking at my eyes.”
Isabel tilts her head and says, “I would kill for a body like this. Damn, I don’t know how you eat as much junk food as you do and look like that. I eat one pack of Twix and it goes straight to my hips.”
“We wear the same jean size, remember?”
There’s a loud knock at the door and we both startle.
“Isabel?” a woman’s voice says through the door.
“Becca, is that you?” Isabel asks as she flits to the door.
“Absolutely,” Becca says in a voice so sultry I suddenly question what the hell I’m doing.
Isabel opens the door and Becca marches into the room with purpose. Her black hair is cut into a severe bob. A heavy-looking camera bag is slung over her shoulder and lighting reflectors are tucked under her arm.
She sets all the equipment on the bed and says, “This room is perfect. Normally I’m in someone’s boring everyday bedroom. Hell, the last person I did was a forty-year-old woman in pigtails and white knee highs who posed on a bed that hadn’t been made this century. I mean, anything was bound to be better than that, but this is fantastic. Maybe I should insist on hotel locations from now on.”
Isabel and I look at each other and try not to laugh. Talk about a surreal afternoon. And we haven’t even started taking pictures yet.
“I’m going to go first and then I have to get back to work,” I say. I left Nathan in charge of the front desk, but he has a meeting and couldn’t cover the whole time, which sucks because that means I won’t get to see Isabel’s shoot. Although I have every confidence she will show me every picture ad nauseam and it will be like being there anyway.
“Sounds good, just let me set up my stuff. How raunchy do you want these to be?” Becca asks, busying herself with her equipment.
“Super raunchy,” Isabel says without hesitation.
“For her, not me. I want simple and classy,” I say. Maybe it’s a good thing I won’t be here for Isabel’s photos. She’s my best friend and all but I don’t know that I want to see her getting really raunchy with a camera. I wonder what she has on under the bathrobe. I narrow my eyes at it, as if squinting will give me x-ray vision.
“Don’t listen to her,” Isabel says.
“Okay, one nice, one nasty,” Becca says, popping open a reflective canopy.
“Where do I stand?” I ask.
“Up to you, you can stand in front of the bed and kind of prop yourself up with it, or you can lie out on it. We’ll do a mix,” Becca says. Her voice is cold and mechanical.
“But remember, classy,” I say.
“With a little bit of raunchy. Remember your pledge to lighten up and have more fun,” Isabel says, poking me.
“Wha
t on earth do you think this is if not me lightening up and having more fun?” I say.
Isabel shrugs and says, “You giving in to my begging?”
I roll my eyes and laugh knowing that I wouldn’t be doing this if she hadn’t come up with the idea, but that’s not the whole truth. I’ve made a recent decision have more fun while I still can. Boudoir photos were never on my bucket list, but I’ll tick it off anyway.
“All set, ready when you are,” Becca says, holding her camera out in front of her.
Trying my best not to look awkward, I stand in front of the bed and put my hands on my hips. It’s boring but it’s the sexiest pose I can come up with.
“Pout your lips like a Kardashian doing a kissy face against a palm tree in Barbados,” Isabel says.
I tilt my head and pout my lips, trying to look anything other than ridiculous.
“That’s great, just keep moving around and I’ll take lots of snaps and we’ll get some good ones. Don’t be afraid to try different poses and expressions because we’ll just delete the bad ones and it will be like they never existed,” Becca says, her voice commanding and all business.
Becca’s shutter snaps as I get bolder and more comfortable with the situation. Although I’m definitely still on the side of classy, I do try my best to look more Victoria’s Secret than JCPenney catalog. On a roll, I turn my back to the door and bend over the bed, arching my back and sticking my butt out, one hand clasped against my chest.
Before I realize what’s happening, the door to the room behind me flings open and a man’s voice says, “Sweet.”
Chapter 2
Elsie
In stunned silence I spin around to face the door, trying to comprehend what is happening. A man’s frame fills the doorway, half in and half out of the room. It seems that my appearance halted him in his tracks.
His looks halt me in my tracks.
He’s wearing jeans and a tight navy T-shirt that sculpts to his muscles. One arm is coated in tattoos that run all the way down to his wrist and over the back of his hand. His dark hair is short but tousled and his eyes are bright caramel. He’s surprisingly rugged and not at all a pretty boy.
But more than any of that, the thing that freezes me is the dimple. He’s half smiling, and the dimple begs me to reach out and touch it.
It also makes me realize who he is. Xander Whitman. Heir of the Whitman fortune, reality TV star and renowned society playboy.
Although why would Xander Whitman be at my hotel? I must be wrong. It must be someone else.
I look over to where Isabel and Becca were just standing but they’ve vanished. Presumably to the bathroom. It’s the only place they could’ve gone. How nice of them to leave me alone with the strange man, especially dressed the way I am. Cowards.
Shit, I totally forgot how I’m dressed.
I let out an embarrassing groan and try to cover myself with my hands. It’s futile. Spinning like the Tasmanian Devil, I pull the black satin accent blanket from the foot of the bed and wrap it around me.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m the guy who just checked into this room.” His voice is light and rich, and he definitely sounds like Xander Whitman. Not that I watch Lunatics, his girlfriend Luna Grosvenor’s reality TV show, or anything.
He saunters into the room and lets the door shut behind him.
“This room is in use. You are in the wrong room,” I say, sounding like I have more authority than I look.
“Then why did my key open the door?” He grins as he speaks, and his dimple grows even more delectable. I can’t take my eyes off it.
“There’s obviously been some sort of mistake.”
“Can I ask a question?” he asks, propping his tattoo-covered hand against the wall. I drag my eyes from his dimple to his bright eyes. When our eyes connect my insides puddle.
I clear my throat, try to stand a little taller to look composed and say, “Sure.”
“Why are you dressed like that?” he asks playfully.
“It’s none of your business. Now please go back to the front desk to find your correct room.” My mind races, trying to figure out how and why he is in this hotel, this room, of all places in the world. Not just the fact that it has to be Xander Whitman, but how did Nathan screw up and give him this room? I specifically said I was going to be in room two-fifteen. I even wrote it down on a big piece of paper and left it right smack in the middle of the reception desk.
“I like this room, it has a great view.” He rakes his eyes down the length of my body, and a shiver runs over me at the intensity of his gaze. “And since my key for the door worked and I have no idea who you are or how you got in this room, I’d say I’m in the right place and it’s you who is in the wrong place.” He smiles broader, clearly toying with me.
Well, I’m not going to be toyed with, no matter who he is. Or how sexy he is.
“This is definitely my room,” I say with conviction.
“And why should I believe you?” he says, quirking an eyebrow.
“Because I told you you’re in the wrong room. Why don’t you understand that? Isn’t it obvious that when you enter a hotel room and someone else is standing in it that it isn’t your room?” I say, raising my eyebrows and angling my head.
He looks around at the desk and eyes the telephone. “I’m going to call the manager.”
“I am the manager.”
“This hotel gets better by the minute.”
“Let me call the front desk and let them know you’re on your way back down.”
“Hold on, first I would like to register a complaint with the manager. That’s you, right?” he says, unable to hide his smirk.
“Actually, I’m the assistant manager. But I’m more than happy to let the manager know that you will be registering a complaint.” God, I hope he doesn’t register a complaint, I really don’t want Cynthia to find out about this. Please don’t call my bluff.
“Can assistant managers deal with complaints?”
“Definitely. Some days it feels like that’s all I do.”
“Oh, do people who stay in this hotel have a lot to complain about?”
“They have tons to complain about, fortunately not much of it actually relates to the quality of our establishment.” People just like to bitch about stuff and I’m the lucky person who gets to hear it.
“Well, I’d like to complain about having to move rooms.”
“You know what, since you’re so irrationally attached to the room that you have been in for all of five seconds, you can have it. I will move rooms.”
“Out of the goodness of your heart?”
“In the interest of keeping my guest happy.”
“Does this mean you’re going to leave me here alone?” He steps forward and the distance between us dissolves. I can feel the heat coming off his skin. He looks at me and my eyes flit between his eyes and his dimple.
“That would be the plan.” As much as I’d like to stay here and hang out with him, I obviously can’t.
“By the way, I’m Paul. Nice to meet you,” he says, raising his hand.
My mind races over our entire exchange and my brow furrows when I realize what he said to me. His name is Paul. Does that mean he isn’t Xander Whitman?
How can he not be Xander Whitman? Unless I’m completely out to lunch. Although I know some celebrities check into hotels under fake names. But that still leaves the biggest question of all – why would Xander Whitman be checking into a hotel at the edge of the highway in Trenton, New Jersey?
My eyes focus on the tattoo-covered hand for a moment before I slot my own hand into it. His large hand envelops mine and he gently squeezes it, filling me with warmth. I squeeze his hand back and smile up at him. There’s something natural about his touch, something that I don’t want to let go of. At least not yet. He doesn’t seem in a hurry to let go of me either and we stand, hand in hand.
“Nice to meet you, Paul, I’m Elsie Cushing, Assistant Manager here at the
Good Rest Inn,” I say, examining him in more detail.
“Fabulous, Elsie Cushing. I’m Paul Newman.”
“Paul Newman?” I say and laugh. I can’t help myself and keep chuckling at the absurdity of the entire situation.
“You got a problem with that?”
“Nope. I love salad, and a good salad needs a good salad dressing.”
“I’m not so good with the salads but I do make a nice creamy dressing.”
“Shame your eyes aren’t blue like the actor Paul Newman.”
“They still wouldn’t be as nice as your green ones.” His eyes bore into mine and it’s impossible for me to look away. I stand here, feeling as though he’s searching my very being. The feeling becomes too intense and at last I pull my hand from his and drop it to my side.
Chapter 3
Xander
I laugh at myself for checking in as Paul Newman. I always pick a different old-time celebrity name when I check into a hotel but today for once I wish I’d used a random name.
Opening the hotel door to a money shot of the perfect ass of Elsie Cushing really brightened my otherwise shitty day.
Usually women fall at my feet when I so much as glance at them, but not Elsie. She gave it right to me. Plus, she’s gorgeous. Even with that half blanket ridiculously wrapped around her like a toga. Despite trying to cover up her smoking hot lingerie-clad body, she still can’t hide her shapely calves or her beautiful eyes.
I don’t know what I expected to find when I fled New York City, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. Who knew some shitty hotel on an exit ramp in New Jersey could hold something so beautiful? I’m really fucking glad I had to leave the highway when I did.
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