by Poppy Dunne
“You think I could leave and miss the world’s greatest Nordic folk metal? Even without the goat tossing? What kind of monster do you think I am?” He kisses me, lifting me a few inches off the ground. “Besides, I haven’t made out at a concert since I was a teenager.”
“Don’t let me keep you from walking down memory lane,” I say, kissing him deeper. Feeling and heat spike through me, until I finally release him and walk out, his hand in mine. “Come on. I know a great, shadowy alcove where we can get to second base.”
Ben pulls me back against him once more, kissing my temple, my cheek, down to my neck. “You’re making this the easiest shift I’ve ever had,” he murmurs in my ear. “And the sexiest.”
“I could say the same,” I whisper against his mouth. So I do what any red-blooded career gal would do while the band plays and the Norwegians sing and the dry ice machine blasts and my gay British boss is somewhere lost in the crowd getting a blow job. I kiss the man who delivered the pizza, and he kisses me back.
Who knew having an appetite would be such a good thing?
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to all the bloggers and early readers of Room Service for your encouraging words and enthusiasm.
Thank you Shannon Passmore with Shanoff Formats for her professional and creative help creating the cover and promotional images for this book.
Thank you Debra Presley at The Book Enthusiast and Autumn Gantz at Wordsmith Publicity for their guidance in releasing and promoting this book. You made it easy.
Lastly, thank you to the room service guy at the Aria, Las Vegas, who inspired parts of this book. Although you didn't pop a full on erection when my robe slipped and my boob popped out, you didn't look away either, did you buddy? And from that, Room Service was born, and this almost forty year old got a nice shot of confidence, and mozzarella sticks to boot.
