Need You Now (1001 Dark Nights)(4)

The elevator dings and he pulls back, staring down at me. “That’s our floor.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. “What? No. I can’t—”

“You can. We can.” He grabs the door.

“I don’t know you.”

“I plan to fix that,” he assures me.

Doubt bites through the haze of tequila and desire, creating uncertainty, threatening to ruin this with good, logic, safe thoughts that will lead me away from this man, not to him.

“Now or never,” he challenges.

My throat restricts but the good girl in me, the sane one who protects herself because no one else will, utters the only acceptable answer. “I can’t.”

His eyes, that I now know are a deep beautiful sea green, fill with regret. “Understood. My loss.” He releases me and begins to move, leaving me cold where I was warm only seconds before. I don’t think. I react, grabbing his arm. His leg pins the door, his gaze colliding with mine, his eyes darkening with a mix of what I think is satisfaction and conquest, but smartly he doesn’t speak, as if he knows that if he says the wrong thing, I’ll bolt.

He draws my hand into his, his fingers lacing with mine in what feels far more intimate than it logically is, but then I’ve just proven logic has no room in encounter number two with this man. I am lost to him and in the promise lacing the air with something unfamiliar and wicked, something I have never experienced before. Nerves flutter in my stomach, but they do not win, not when heat licks at all the places I want to feel this man. And not when I crave the freedom to simply experience the moment I never allow myself.

He leads me into the hallway, I am relieved when he doesn’t push me in front of him. He seems to get me without even knowing me, holding on to me but still leading, going first down the hallway, as if he’s aware of the vulnerable, exposed sensation walking in front of him would give me.

It’s then that I realize we’re on the thirtieth floor, where the elite suites are, and I wonder who this man is, my curiosity piquing further when he stops at the “Heather” room, our most expensive rental. But I don’t have time to debate his importance. He pulls me in front of him, his hips framing mine, the thick pulse of his erection nestled against my backside as he slides a key card through the door and pushes it open.

This time, I am in the lead, vulnerable position, and I have this gut feeling it’s intentional, his way of telling me the final decision to move forward has to be mine. This is my moment of control and I inhale, waiting for the need to bolt to overcome me, but it doesn’t. My mind knows I’m with a stranger, it knows this is dangerous, and my actions are out of character for me, but the low burn in my belly this man creates has control. I barely know the instant I decide to stay. I am simply claiming the tiled entryway as my path, and this night as an adventure. He doesn’t give me time to go far or to reconsider my choice. The door slams shut behind him and a dim light fills the open expanse of a room, with windows overlooking the city. I take another step, and he shackles my wrist, dragging me around and to him. My purse, which I’ve forgotten I’m holding, slides to the floor, but I don’t care.

He is hard and warm, and I am melting into the defined lines of his body even before the fingers of one of his hands tangle into my hair, dragging my mouth to his. His breath is a tantalizing promise of another kiss, his free hand curving my backside, molding my hips to his, of something more. “I’ve been thinking about how you’d taste since the moment I laid eyes on you.” The declaration is a low, raspy seduction made a promise by the thick press of his cock against my belly and the hot press of his tongue into my mouth.

And I do not feel the normal things I’d expect with a stranger, like fear, nervousness, or doubt. There is a thrill to the unknown with this man I did not know was a part of me, but it is. It so is. My body has control, or perhaps this man has control, because I can’t find it in me to find a reason for this to be bad. There is only the sensual overload he’s creating in me, the way his scent, so divinely woodsy, teases my nostrils. The way his taste, of what I think is a mix of bourbon and mint, seeps into my mouth. And, oh God, do I like bourbon and mint. It’s addictive. He’s addictive and our silence is golden. It’s freedom and it’s forgiving, asking no questions, demanding no explanations. It’s freedom I never allow myself, not even with past lovers, but I feel it now.

My fingers flex where they have landed on his hard chest, and I fully intend to begin exploring every deliciously masculine line of his physique. He distracts me though, walking me backward, pressing me against the wall, shocking me by shoving my hands over my head, using one hand to connect my wrists and pin them in place. I’m held captive, both by his grip and his piercing green stare. But even more so by how much I not only want him, but how much I want to give myself the permission to do something daring and edgy. For once in my life, I want to color outside the lines, and not in sweet hues of pink, but in fiery red.

I inhale and hold in the air as his free hand goes to my waist, gliding upward over my ribcage, slowly taunting me with his intended destination, until he is cupping my breasts. He studies my face, waiting for a reaction. I cannot deny him or me. My lashes flutter and my back arches, my body leaning into his touch. His fingers tease my nipples through my dress but the touch is too brief. His hand caresses its way back to my hip. “How many times have you f*cked a stranger?”