by Elle Kennedy
Instead, I reach for the hem of my T-shirt and pull the material over my head. I unhook my lacy bra. It falls onto the carpet, followed by my short denim skirt, skimpy panties and the heels on my feet.
I shiver when the cool air meets my naked skin. Then I creep toward the edge of the bed, still grinning.
“C’mon, Tony,” I murmur, “you only flew in from Aruba. Don’t plead jet lag.”
I’m answered by a husky male groan.
“Ah, so he’s alive,” I tease, reaching for the corner of the flower-patterned blanket.
With a quiet laugh, I slide under the covers and press my body against Tony’s, fighting back a moan as his warm, rock-hard chest presses against my bare breasts. My nipples instantly harden, the tight buds springing against the soft feathering of hair on his glorious chest.
I swing one leg over his muscular thighs, hoping the heat from my aching pussy might jumpstart his sluggish brain into action. But he remains motionless. The room is still bathed in darkness, and though I can barely see his face, it’s obvious he’s in a seriously deep sleep.
“I see how it is,” I grumble, starting to get annoyed. “Fine. You want me to raise you from the dead? How’s this?”
I place my hand directly on his crotch, a little surprised when I don’t find the cotton barrier of his briefs. Since when does Tony sleep in the buff?
Not that I mind.
As a lazy heat begins dancing through my veins, I drag my index finger along the length of his shaft. Like his chest, it’s rock-hard, and…bigger? No, it can’t be.
I run my finger over the tip of his cock, feel the drop of moisture there, and smile as a groan breaks through the silence. Finally. Signs of life.
His massive erection tells me he’ll be getting into the swing of things soon, and I’m right. The second I squeeze his shaft, one powerful arm slides out and pulls me closer. I’m suddenly crushed in his embrace, his cock still in my hand, while a pair of warm lips seeks mine out in the darkness.
His kiss steals the breath from my lungs and makes me gasp against his hot mouth. There’s nothing soft or gentle about it, just a greedy devouring, the hungry thrusts of his tongue, the sting of his teeth as he bites my lower lip.
When did Tony start kissing like this?
And why hadn’t he done it sooner?
The intensity of his kisses causes me to drop my hand from his erection. All I can do is lose myself in the delicious sensations his mouth and tongue create in my body. Limbs turning to jelly. Moisture pooling between my legs. Nipples so tight it’s almost painful.
A fire hotter than anything I’ve ever experienced sweeps over me. Crackling when he bites my lip again. Hissing when he cups a breast.
And then he slips one finger into my sopping wet pussy and I’m shocked to feel the ripples of an impending orgasm rising to the surface.
Holy shit.
I clamp my teeth down on my bottom lip, trying to stop the climax. It’s too fast, too soon.
How is this possible?
I’ve slept with this guy dozens of times before, so why is my entire body swarming with unfamiliar sensations?
I pry open my eyelids, hoping that if our gazes lock, I might make sense of it. I squint, blinking as I search his face in the dark, and then wonder why his features look more…rugged.
My gaze drifts lower and settles on his arm—is that a tattoo? When did Tony get himself inked?
And why isn’t he tanned? He just came from Aruba, so really, he should have a—
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” rasps a sleepy voice.
I bolt up as if someone just shoved a ten-thousand-volt wire up my spine.
Why don’t I recognize his voice?
As a steady stream of panic rushes up my throat, I gape at the dark head beside me and repeat his question in my disorientated brain.
What’s the matter?
I’m in bed with a stranger.
4
Ben
I wake up with a jolt, sucked out of my dream thanks to a shrill female yelp.
Christ, that dream. It rivaled the one I had back in the ninth grade, that really awesome one where I fondled Cindy Mason’s Double-D’s. There were no Double-D’s in this one, but a pair of delectable C’s, and a female body with more curves than a lush valley. A hot mouth with an eager tongue. A tight wet pussy—
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
The mortified voice thrusts me into a fully conscious state. As I quickly collect my bearings, I glance over and see that it was all real. There’s a gorgeous redhead in bed with me, as naked as I am—and she looks horrified.
“What the fuck…?” I blink a few times and finally force my hand to reach for the lamp on the nightstand.
As a pale yellow glow falls over the hotel room, I direct my gaze to the stranger next to me. She has green eyes, really pretty green eyes, despite the fact that they’re swimming with fear. Her cheeks are as red as her hair, and when I look farther south, I see a crimson flush has spread over her very perky, very bare tits.
The redhead catches me staring and lets out another yelp, quickly pulling the bedcovers up to her chin to shield her nudity. Her domination of the blanket, however, leaves me fully exposed, and I sigh when I notice I’m still rocking the boner of all boners.
What the hell is going on here? I have no clue who this chick is, only that she’s the sexiest sight I’ve seen in a while. Along with those magnetic emerald eyes and knockout figure, she has high cheekbones, a dainty nose and a sensual mouth that’s just a little bit crooked. I like it, that small imperfection. It makes her all the more…real.
I wish she’d wipe that deer-in-the-headlights expression off her flushed face, though. I’m not a serial killer, for fuck’s sake. And she’s in my bed, not the other way around.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again as she edges toward the side of the bed, still clinging to the blanket. “I must be in the wrong room.”
I open my mouth to answer, but for some inexplicable reason the power of speech completely eludes me. What the fuck am I supposed to say anyway? No problem, thanks for giving me this stiffy?
As I watch her stumble off the bed in her blanket-toga, my confusion gives way to suspicion. Is she really in the wrong room? Sure, the skinny dude downstairs was totally incompetent and could’ve screwed up with the keys, but how likely is that? A much likelier possibility would be… Damn it, is she press? Did she purposely sneak into my room and try to seduce me in hopes of getting a juicy story to sell to the tabloids?
Shit.
I scramble to cover up the goods with one of the flat pillows on the bed, then narrow my eyes as the redhead scurries around the room, collecting items of clothing.
“Who are you?” I growl. My tone means business.
She falters for a moment, a black T-shirt clutched between her fingers. “What?”
“Are you a reporter?”
“Why would I be a reporter?” She appears frazzled as she stares at the shirt in her hands and then shoots me a pleading look. “Could you…could you just close your eyes for a minute while I get dressed?”
Oh, so now she’s all prim and modest? Sure hadn’t been that way when she was stroking my dick.
Deciding I’m entitled to a little peek, I pretend to close my eyes while watching her through slitted eyelids. I get an out-of-focus glimpse of her hooking up her bra, and my cock twitches with disappointment when her full breasts are finally covered. Is asking her to come back to bed inappropriate?
Probably.
“Okay. I’m dressed.”
Yes, she is. But the tight T-shirt and short denim skirt that does amazing things to her legs only confirms she looks just as good clothed as she did naked.
“I’m mortified,” she murmurs.
Then, as if she’s offering a scrap of meat to a feral lion, she steps forward and hands me the blanket.
I drape it over my lower body as she continues to ramble on. “I was supposed to meet…a guy. He sai
d this was his room number and…I guess I got it wrong. I…” She stammers, “I don’t usually break into strangers’ hotel rooms, I promise. I just…” She drifts off, her cheeks growing redder by the second.
Strangers?
The word hangs in the air, bringing with it another dose of confusion. She doesn’t recognize me?
She actually doesn’t recognize me?
I’m not conceited enough to think that all the women on the planet know who I am, but my face has been splashed on every Hollywood rag, every entertainment show, all over social media, for weeks now. Even the elderly couple who does my dry-cleaning have heard of me, and they haven’t been to the movies since the ’50s.
“I’m just going to leave now, okay?” she says. “I’m sorry. I can’t apologize enough for…this. I, um, I work at a bar called The Olive Martini, near the corner of Broadway and 45th, so if you’re ever in the neighborhood you can pop in and the drinks will be on the house.” She sucks in a deep breath. “I know a free drink doesn’t make up for…um, this, but it’s all I can do.”
Then she clamps her mouth shut and looks at me with wide, shameful eyes, and the humor of the situation finally settles over me. A complete stranger just slipped into my bed, kissed the hell out of me, got me harder than granite, and now she’s offering me free drinks to make up for it?
Laughter lodges in my throat as I try to formulate a sentence that might make the situation seem a little less insane.
I never get the chance.
With an awkward smile and another look of terror, the redhead hurries for the door.
A flash of pink from the carpet catches my eye.
“Wait,” I call as she reaches for the door handle. “You forgot your—”
She slides out and closes the door with a soft click.
“—panties,” I finish.
And then I give in to the urge and start to laugh.
5
Maggie
I tear down the street in a full-throttled run, sucking in the night air as if an overdose of oxygen will erase the pure humiliation sticking to my throat. I glance over my shoulder, half expecting to find the sexy stranger I just mauled chasing after me. Nope. All I see is the slow rush of people flowing out of one of the theaters, chattering about the show they’d just seen.
I know the dark-haired hottie isn’t in the crowd, because lethal good looks like his would be impossible to miss.
How is it possible for someone to be that attractive?
When he’d turned on the lights, I had to slam my mouth closed to avoid drooling all over the hotel room carpet. He had the kind of looks you only see on male models these days—cobalt blue eyes, straight white teeth, dimples that melt your insides. But with a bit of an edge, which was highlighted by the tattoos on his biceps and chest, and the way his scruffy brown hair curled under his ears. He had bad boy written all over him. It was hot. And tempting. And thank God I got out of there.
Who knows what I would’ve done if I’d stayed even a second longer.
Probably fucked his brains out.
“Excuse me, coming through,” I call as I weave through the same group of teenagers I passed on the way to the hotel.
“Hey, baby, what’s the rush?” one of the baggy-clothed kids asks with a laugh.
I ignore the kids and push forward, my high heels clicking against the sidewalk. People keep getting in my damn way, slowing me down. All I want is to get to my building and pretend this whole hotel fiasco hadn’t happened.
Why wasn’t Tony there?
The question makes me stop in my tracks. For the past five minutes I’ve been beating myself over the head for winding up in a stranger’s room, but there’s no way I got the room number wrong. I wrote it on my hand.
Furrowing my brows, I flip over my hand and stare at the three digits I scribbled on my palm. It’s right there—312. The ink is starting to smear, but there’s no mistaking the room number. I got it right, which means that Tony—that jerk—is to blame for this entire mess.
Why hadn’t he shown up? He would’ve called if the plan had changed, wouldn’t he?
I reach into my purse and rummage around for my phone. I pull it out, and then groan. It’s still on silent. I forgot to turn the ringer back on after my shift.
Five seconds later, I access my voice mail and, sure enough, hear Tony’s voice.
“Hey, Mags, it’s me. Listen, I’ve got some bad news. We had to make an emergency landing in Tallahassee. Some freak hurricane just swept in and the airline is delaying all the flights. I won’t be able to get a flight out until tomorrow morning, but we’re shit out of luck, babe. I have a meeting with a publisher in the afternoon and then I’m flying out to Bora Bora at five. Looks like we’ll see each other next time I’m in town. Probably the end of August. Say hi to the folks at the Olive for me.”
I hang up the phone and grit my teeth. Say hi to the folks at the Olive for me?
Anger swirls in my stomach, but deep down I know I can’t blame Tony for what happened. He doesn’t control the weather or the airlines, and it’s not his fault that a delay I hadn’t known about sent me into bed with another man.
Hell, I have nobody to blame but myself. Why on earth didn’t I turn on the light when I walked in, instead of hopping into the bed and giving a stranger a handjob?
I’m the moron, not Tony.
I take a few calming breaths. It’s not a big deal, right? Just a case of mistaken identity. It’s not like I’m ever going to see my blue-eyed bad boy again. Well, unless he decides to show up for that free drink I offered, but how likely is that? The man probably thinks I’m a nutcase.
Which would be a very astute assumption on his part.
Unable to stop it, a giggle tears out of my throat. It’s a hysterical one, sure, but at least I’m able to find some amusement in the situation. The memory of the man’s bewildered eyes as he lay on the bed with an impressive erection flashes across my brain, turning the giggle into a full-out laugh.
I resume the walk home, my humiliation fading at each click of my heels. Okay, so I molested a man whose name I don’t even know. Big deal. He’d liked it. I liked it too. Nobody was harmed. And we’ll probably never cross paths again, so really, what harm had been done?
By the time I reach my building, my nerves have started to calm. I use my key to get into the lobby, then step inside and greet the security guard behind the desk. Considering the building is less than a dozen blocks from Central Park, the rent should have been astronomical. When I moved here from Albany, I thought I’d never be able to find a decent place that wouldn’t drain my savings account, but on my very first day in Manhattan I hit the jackpot.
Summer Windsor, a former waitress at the Olive, was subletting an apartment owned by her grandmother, and when Summer learned I was currently living in a motel, she offered me her spare room. The rent is peanuts, which allows me to save for college, and I don’t even mind sleeping on the couch whenever Summer’s grandmother comes for a visit. Actually, I kind of look forward to Nana’s visits. For a girl who’d grown up with zero family, sometimes it’s nice having someone dote on me.
As I ride the elevator up to the tenth floor, I glance at my phone again. It’s almost one a.m., which means Summer is either sleeping, staying at her boyfriend’s, or practicing her steel drum.
Please don’t let it be option number three.
My prayers go unanswered—when I walk into the apartment, I’m instantly met by a wave of jingly notes, my roommate’s rendition of “Under the Sea”.
“You’re still at it, huh?” I sigh, tossing my purse on the coffee table before collapsing on the couch.
“The wedding is in three days,” Summer replies from the other side of the room. “I have to practice.”
She’s set up the drum right in front of the small dining room window. The people who live in the building across the alley have screamed at her on numerous occasions to keep her day job. I agree with them, but I can’t deny I find the whole t
hing kind of amusing. Summer, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed accountant, banging away on a steel drum so that she could play it at a Jamaican wedding reception.
Summer met Tygue, the man of her dreams, during a vacation to Montego Bay. The two fell head over heels for each other, and a month later Tygue moved to New York. They’ve been inseparable for more than a year now, and they’re flying back to Jamaica in a few days to attend Tygue’s brother’s wedding.
Where Summer got the idea to play the steel drum for the joyous event, who the hell knows. I can’t see Tygue asking his girlfriend to do it, so I’m a bit terrified that she’d come up with the idea all on her own.
“I wasn’t expecting you back tonight. Why aren’t you with Tony?” she says, biting her lip in concentration as she bangs away on the large instrument.
“You don’t want to know,” I reply with a groan. I kick off my heels and rest my legs on the glass coffee table.
My ears get a much needed reprieve when Summer stops drumming. Pale blue eyes flickering with curiosity, she rises from the stool and asks, “What happened?”
Before her butt can even land on the sofa cushion beside me, half the story has already spilled out of my mouth.
When I’m done, Summer is laughing uncontrollably.
“Yes, laugh at me,” I say with a frown. “It makes me feel so much better.”
“Oh God, I can’t believe you did that,” she blurts between giggles.
“Well, believe it. Honestly, I’ve never been more humiliated in my life. This even beat the time in fifth grade when that snotty Billy Turner made fun of me for being in foster care.”
“Jeez, that is bad.” She pauses. “Was he hot, at least?”
“Hot is an understatement. He was…” I search my vocabulary for the right adjective and come up empty-handed. “Indescribably good-looking.”
Summer looks intrigued. “Nice body?”
“Oh yeah. And he had that whole rebel thing going on. Messy hair, tattoos, the I’m-too-cool-to-shave thing happening.”
