BY THE HOUR, ATLANTA, Book 1

by LaBrecque, Jennifer

  Copyright © 2013Jenius Works, LLC.

  First Edition

  KINDLE EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Arden smoothed her unsteady hand over the edge of her black pencil skirt, her heart racing with anticipation. Despite Atlanta’s mild spring weather, a fine sheen of perspiration coated her skin. The cab pulled up beneath the rich awning with Eleven scripted across the front. The hotel looked much like the other Buckhead-area buildings flanking it, stately yet sophisticated. She handed the cabbie a twenty. It was seriously overtipping, but she was so nervous she didn’t care.

  Two fellows at the valet parking station ignored them. It was a cab. However, before she could reach for the door handle, a handsome man in a tailored, well-cut suit opened her door.

  “Good afternoon,” he greeted her as she climbed out of the cab’s back seat. “May I assist you with any luggage?”

  Arden strove for a casual sophistication, readily belied by her accelerated pulse. “No, thank you. No luggage.” Did people arrive with luggage at the boutique hotel that rented its rooms by the hour, where a guest could order their room set up like harem or a medical office or whatever setting accommodated their sexual fantasy? Obviously, some did.

  “Very well.” He opened the front door for her. “Welcome to Hotel Eleven. Enjoy your stay.”

  “Thank you.” She stepped inside and took a moment to gather her composure. It was lovely, absolutely lovely—the epitome of good taste. This was certainly no seedy no-tell motel. It rivaled any of the high-end accommodations in the city.

  White marble floors gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers. To the right, clean-lined sofas and chairs upholstered in a black and white geometric pattern invited guests to relax. Muted jazz played in the background.

  Arden, her heels tapping against the marble, much like her heart thumping against her ribs, approached the reception counter. A woman with wavy chestnut hair, Georgina according to her nametag, welcomed her with a warm, yet professional smile. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Hotel Eleven.”

  Arden rested her fingertips against the cool stone of the black countertop. “I’m early.” Unsure of Atlanta traffic, she’d given herself plenty of time, but today, of all days, no accidents or road construction or traffic jams had materialized. So now she had a half hour before her check-in…and rendezvous.

  “May I have a check-in name?”

  “Arden Watson.” She waited while the woman verified the reservation. Arden didn’t look, but she hoped she didn’t have any armpit stains going on. She was incredibly nervous. So much for treating herself to a spa morning of massage, facial, and a mani/pedi if she was going to stand here sweating like Attila the Hun.

  The woman looked up with a smile. “Ah, I believe it’s ready now. You can wait in our lobby or go ahead and check in if you’d prefer.”

  Arden definitely preferred to cool her jets in the privacy of a room rather than the public sitting area. “I’ll check in, please.”

  “Very well.” A couple of keystrokes accompanied the woman’s nod. “It appears everything has been taken care of already.” She placed a small folder on the black granite with a smile. “Room 101. First floor, a left off of the elevator, and it will be the last door on the right.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Please give us a call if you require anything or if something isn’t to your satisfaction.”

  Arden clutched her room key and quelled the slightly hysterical urge to laugh. Did that mean she could call the front desk if her “date” wasn’t to her “satisfaction”? Instead she merely smiled and crossed to the elevator.

  Just as the elevator doors pinged open, a woman wearing a sexy short skirt and carrying a Louis Vuitton travel case stepped on behind her. Without a word, she reached around Arden and pressed the button for the sixth floor. Thank goodness the woman wasn’t inclined to chat because Arden was simply too nervous to make small talk as they rode the elevator up a floor. The piped-in jazz kept the silence from being deafening. When the doors opened, she stepped out. Muted light from wall sconces flanked a mirror facing the elevator. She stood and watched the reflection of the doors closing behind her.

  Thick carpet muffled her footfalls as she walked down the hall. Except for the music, all was quiet. Eleven was known to have incredible soundproofing. What happened behind closed doors here stayed behind closed doors.

  Sliding the card through the slot, she stepped into the suite. Surreal—as elegant as the rest of the hotel but all rather surreal. The white marble floors gleamed in the foyer and the sitting room. An arrangement of fresh flowers graced a small table beneath a gilt-framed mirror.

  Having gained the privacy of her room, she checked her appearance. Not too bad for an old broad, although she supposed forty wasn’t exactly over the hill these days. The auburn hair color she paid an arm and leg for covered the grays that were determined to sprout up. Her green eyes had some lines around them, but not too bad.

  Okay. Today it was official. It was uncomfortable to think it, much less say it. She didn’t want to be forty; it just sounded so…well, it sounded so much worse than thirty-nine. However, it did beat the alternative.

  How in the heck had she allowed Janice and Deborah to talk her into this? Birthday sex with a total stranger.

  She hadn’t required too much “talking into.” Arden didn't have a special man in her life. Dating was too complicated these days. She shuddered at the thought of first dates and the relaying of pertinent facts about you and listening to his pertinent facts and trying to figure out if there was anything worth pursuing. Obviously, as she was thirty-nine, make that forty now, and still a divorcee, she’d not found anyone worth pursuing.

  Take all of the above and factor in, plain and simple, that she was horny—it’d been nearly a year. She’d always had the sex-with-a-stranger fantasy, which she’d shared with Janice and Deborah one night over cosmopolitans. As far as Arden could tell, sex with a stranger was easily arranged. That’s what the majority of the men on the online dating sites or in bars were after, regardless of the line of bullshit they put forth. But there were some weirdos out there and with her luck, she’d wind up hooking up with a Jack-the-ripper wannabe who’d hack her into little pieces or something crazy like that. There were strangers and then there were strangers.

  Janice and Deborah had hatched a birthday surprise for her—stranger sex at this elegant hotel with a man who was a stranger to her…but not to Janice. She worked with the guy. According to Janice, he wasn’t gay, married, ugly, or so weird he was hard-pressed for sex. Nope. He was just a guy who was flat-out titillated at the idea of an afternoon tryst where he and his dick were her birthday present.

  No questions, no commitment, no strings, just indulgent sex. She had to hand it to Janice for being thorough. Janice had requested, and he’d presented, a clean bill of health.

  At this point, Arden’s biggest challenge would be cramming in, no pun intended, all the things she wanted to do to him and have him do to her in two hours. Please God, don’t let him be a one-hit wonder. Although one was better than none, which was what she’d had the past year. She’d take that, but hope for more.

  A sofa, loveseat, and armchair, all boasting the same clean lines as the lobby furniture, formed a cozy seating area around a marble-fronted fireplace. A dozen long-stemmed pink roses in a crystal vase were on the end table. Arden plucked out the card. It simply said, “Enjoy!” She tu
cked the card into her purse. She planned to enjoy.

  A bottle of champagne rested in a silver-plated stand, immersed in ice. Two flutes waited on the end table. Plump strawberries dipped in dark, white, and milk chocolate were artfully arranged on a white china plate rimmed in gold. She selected a dark chocolate-coated berry and nibbled at it. Delicious. Popping the rest in her mouth and discarding the stem, she chewed slowly, savoring the blend of dark chocolate and sweet berry with an overlay of tartness.

  She trailed her hand over the back of the couch and continued to explore the suite. She crossed to the French doors leading to the bedroom. She swallowed hard at the king-sized bed with the padded headboard. They’d be putting that to use. A chair with a matching ottoman sat to one side of the bed while a desk and chair in dark wood with smooth lines occupied the far corner.

  The bathroom was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. White marble floors with black marble countertops screamed elegance. The bathtub, obviously built for two or three, shouted decadence.

  The outer door opened and closed. Her heart began to race. He was here. She felt light-headed. Her hands trembling, she drew a deep breath. Hyperventilating and/or passing out would not be good. After the pause which seemed to last forever, but could’ve only been a few seconds, his footsteps sounded and then stopped just beyond the French doors. Arden stepped back into the bedroom, unsure of what to do next.

  “Hello,” she called out.

  “Happy birthday,” he said.

  Oh. My. His voice, with a faint rasp, was rich and full like the dark chocolate she could still taste on her tongue.

  “Thank you,” she said, smoothing her palms over her thighs. Her party had officially started. She walked toward the sitting room.

  “Stop,” he said. She automatically halted at the authoritative note in his voice. “Are the curtains drawn in the bedroom?”

  Arden glanced over her shoulder. “No.”

  “Draw the curtains, walk to the French doors, and then turn and face the bed.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to blindfold you.”

  Her internal alarm sounded. “I didn’t agree to that.”

  “But you will.” His voice held a faint amusement rather than menace, and she relaxed a little. Her alarm gave way to excitement.

  “Oh, really? And why is that?”

  “Because it’s titillating…exciting. You’re both scared and aroused, aren’t you? You’re afraid of the unknown, but you’re wet because the idea excites you and you know that I’m safe.”

  She did like the idea, but it wasn’t all going to be on his terms. “Maybe later.”

  “No. Now.” His tone was implacable. “Once you’ve seen me you can never recapture that true element of the unknown.”

  She hesitated. What he said was true. She was excited at the idea—it really hadn’t occurred to her and it was true that once she’d actually seen him, the element of uncertainty would be lost.

  “Do you trust Janice?” he said.

  “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  “Then do it.”

  She crossed the room and closed the curtains, guessing he didn’t want her to glimpse him in the window’s reflection through the sheers. She walked back to the French doors and deliberately turned her back to the sitting room, as he’d instructed.

  “Don’t turn your head. Look straight ahead and close your eyes.”

  She let her eyelids drift shut and stood stock-still as he stepped closer. She didn’t recognize his cologne, but it smelled expensive…and sexy. She felt his body heat behind her, close but not touching. He was taller than she. She felt his energy. His heat assaulted her. She was dying inside already.

  “Your eyes are closed?”

  She could barely breathe with that sexy voice, his scent, his heat, his maleness behind her. “Yes.”

  “Good. Keep them closed.”

  A shiver ran through her at the slide of satin over her face, the brush of his fingers against her hair as he secured the knot. “Don’t take it off until I tell you to.”

  She nodded.

  “Now, turn to face me.” She did.

  He skimmed his hand over her shoulder to brush against her neck and another shiver ran through her. “Hello,” he murmured as his lips closed onto hers in a kiss.

  His mouth was warm and firm. The man had obviously had plenty of practice or he’d been born with natural kissing talent or a combination thereof, because it was like falling into something delicious.

  “Mmm,” she murmured her approval against his mouth. She felt his smile against her lips as he deepened the kiss, wrapping his arms around her. She had to reach up to brace her hands on his shoulders. They were broad, the fabric beneath her fingertips and palms finely woven. Nice, very nice.

  And then she forgot about fabric and focused on the feel of his mouth.

  He drew away and took her by the hand. “Let’s go sit on the sofa and drink a birthday toast. I won’t let you bump into anything.”

  Keeping her body close to his, he guided her into the sitting room. Arden felt the press of the upholstered edge against the back of her knees. “There you are.”

  She settled back onto the sofa and heard the rustle of his slacks. The ice clinked against the champagne bucket. The cork’s pop echoed in the room, along with their breathing. There was something very sensual about his quiet and her blindfold.

  He pressed the stem of the glass into her hand, and she curled her fingers around it. He spoke, “Here’s to a happy birthday and many more.”

  His glass clinked against hers and cautiously she brought the crystal to her mouth. The champagne was perfect—chilled yet dry.

  He continued, “We can’t have you going hungry. Try a bite.”

  “What is it?”

  “A surprise.” She smelled chocolate and strawberries. Arden bit and the juicy sweetness exploded in her mouth, the perfect chaser behind the dry champagne. And somehow, it was all the better when it was fed to her, blindfolded, by this man.

  “Mmm.”

  “I want a taste,” he said.

  “Help yourself.”

  A cool sticky wetness against her neck startled her. He had squeezed the berry’s juice onto her skin. He leaned in, his hair brushing against her jaw, his breath warm against her skin. And then those wonderful lips of his teased against her as the velvet warmth of his tongue licked a small trail. Heat exploded deep inside her.

  “Oh,” she gasped.

  He murmured against her, the faint rasp of his whiskers teasing against her. “Delicious.”

  He trailed the berry deliberately down from her neck to her cleavage. Slowly he dragged his tongue against the top of her breasts, creating a throb for more deep inside her.

  His fingers hovered at her neckline. “Ask for more.”

  She wasn’t exactly sure what he was seeking permission to do, but at this point she’d agree to almost anything.

  “May I have more?” The words felt awkward and she felt a little self-conscious, but incredibly aroused nonetheless.

  He unbuttoned her blouse and cool air kissed her skin. “Very, very nice,” he said.

  Arden had spent a small fortune at a lingerie shop. Thank goodness she had sprung for the pink-trimmed black lace bra, panties, garter, and stockings.

  “Are you ready to get sticky?” he said.

  “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Georgina Douglas grabbed a bottled water from the fridge in Eleven’s break room and sat at one of two bistro tables. She slipped off her shoes, flexing and stretching her toes.

  Kennedy Oates, the impossibly handsome doorman who probably pulled in more in tips in a day than Georgina made in a week, sat at the other table in the small kitchenette, an electronic tablet in front of him, ear buds in his ears.

  “New shoes?” He pulled out the ear buds. His glance at her stockinged feet sent gooseflesh prickling over her skin.

  “Exactly,” G
eorgina said, enjoying the floor’s cool tile against her aching soles.

  “You’ll have to get George to rub your feet when you get home tonight.” A hint of wicked lingered in his smile.

  Georgina smiled benignly but said nothing. Her husband wouldn’t be rubbing anything because she no longer went home to George. She’d decided against telling her co-workers she’d moved out, that she was tossing in the towel on her marriage. She wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. She still felt too raw inside. Plus it was her business and Georgina kept her own counsel.

  What exactly had she been thinking? Forget all the other warning signs she’d overlooked, but really, why would a woman named Georgina date, much less marry, a man named George? Like a bad plot set-up in a B-grade sitcom, it had been cursed from the beginning.

  She didn’t want to talk about George or her feet so she asked Kennedy, “Do you have a gig going?”

  A jazz saxophonist, Kennedy worked at Eleven to fund his true passion. He and the three other musicians who comprised the quartet were playing more and more venues.

  He flashed a smile and she thought, not for the first time in the six months she’d worked at Eleven, that he’d received more than his fair share of good looks when the big guy upstairs was handing them out. It had taken her a while to figure out who he reminded her of but she’d finally nailed it. He was a cross between Lenny Kravitz, when Lenny was “cleaned up” and wasn’t sporting dreads or braids, and a young Denzel Washington. And the perplexing part of it was that even though he was mouth-wateringly yummy, he came across as a genuinely nice guy to boot. What was wrong with his picture? She didn’t know yet, but something would surface sooner or later—it always did.

  Kennedy answered her gig question. “We’re playing at Café Terrazzo tomorrow night. You should stop in.”

  “Maybe I will,” she said. She wouldn’t. She’d go home to her studio apartment and curl up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, Tallulah the cat, and her Roku box. Ending a ten-year marriage could leave a gal feeling kind of flat, even if it was the right thing to do.