Not So Nice Guy(56)
Everyone stops and stares at us, not only because we’re running in a fancy hotel but because we’re very clearly dressed like we just got married. Sam’s still holding her rose.
We’re at the elevators and I press the up button incessantly.
“We probably need a room key to use the elevator,” Sam says, clutching her chest like she’s about to keel over.
It’s in my wallet.
The elevator dings and slides open. We step inside and I press the button for floor 4.
Her eyes slice to me and I unfurl a slow smile. “Happy honeymoon, Mrs. Fletcher.”
It’s the first time we’ve stopped since I initially saw her in the museum. It’s our first moment to breathe.
“No way! Only rich people stay here! Mafia Dons and foreign dignitaries and Beyoncé!”
“If anyone asks, we’re from the Russian consulate. Let me hear your accent.”
“Iz theez the ótel Zaza?”
“Too French.”
“Right. Let’s just say I’m the Queen of France.”
“Wasn’t Marie Antionette the last queen of France?”
Then, her hand flies to her chest and her eyes go wide. “IAN!” Her chest is rising and falling dramatically. She’s gulping in air like she hasn’t breathed in a decade. “We didn’t kiss. We didn’t have our first kiss!”
She says it as if it’s a deal breaker, as if because there was no kiss, we aren’t really married.
The elevator ascends and I only have seconds to make it happen, but it’s enough. I cross the elevator and push her up against the handrail. My hand cradles her cheek as I lean down. I can feel her pulse beating wildly. Her tongue wets her bottom lip in anticipation. She sucks in a sharp breath and her hand tightens around my wrist.
“You may now kiss the bride,” I whisper before pressing my mouth to hers.
Now she’s officially mine.
“Uh, yeah…” my mom says from my tuxedo pocket. “By the way, we’re still here.”
21
S A M
We’re running down the hall to our hotel room and my cheap, poorly fitted shoes are gone. I have no clue when exactly they fell off, but I’m barefoot now and the floor is lava. It’s burning our feet and we both know without saying—only the hotel bed will be safe.
“Hold on,” Ian says, and before I can ask him what he’s doing, he yanks me to the side, crashes us up against the wall, and kisses me, hard. That elevator ride sparked something. We can’t get enough of each other. Good thing he hung up on his parents or I’d never be able to make eye contact with them again.
His hips press forward, pinning me in place. His hand curves around my neck and I’m fisting his tuxedo jacket like I’m trying to rip it in two. I’ve never kissed someone while this worked up. We have to break apart every few seconds to gulp in air or we’ll die, but then we go right back to it. He takes my lower lip in his mouth and bites down. Tingles ZING down my body until they settle right between my legs. I’m warm and turned on and anxious to make it to our room.
Actually, any room.
“Where do you think they keep the ice machine?”
“Why?”
“I think we should just try to make it there. It should be secluded enough.”
“No, we’re almost to the room.”
He says this while nuzzling my neck and fingering the zipper of my dress. Dear god, I think he’s going to strip me down right here.
A door opens down the hall. Voices filter in our direction and we take off running again.
“What’s our room number?”
“419. C’mon!”
And we’re off. Ian is sixteen times my size and has legs that go on for miles, so he does the running and I am mostly just along for the ride. I’m a small teddy bear flailing in the wind behind him.
There’s no danger. The security guards gave up the chase as soon as we left the museum, but I don’t think Ian and I are running from danger anymore; we’re running toward it.
“412!” he shouts, picking up the pace.
“Agh! I have a cramp! Go on without me!”
He doubles back and hooks his arm under my legs so he can swing me up against his chest. He runs the last few yards carrying me against him, and for the first time all day, we’re the stereotypical image of a bride and groom. He’s about to carry me over the threshold.
We reach the room and he holds me with one arm as he extracts the key with the other.
“Mrs. Fletcher, would you do the honors?”
The name chokes me up, but I don’t let him see my reaction. I focus instead on trying to turn that little red light green. It takes 45 years. I’m too impatient.
“Hold it there for longer,” Ian instructs.
“I am!”
Of course I’m not. I tap it, jerk the knob, and curse when we’re still locked out.
“Here, gimme.”
Ian yanks it out of my hand, opens the door, and sweeps me inside. I don’t touch the lava even once. He tosses the key and my rose in the general direction of the desk then hauls me up against the back of the door. My lace wedding dress gets shoved up somewhere near my thighs, not because we’re there yet, but because it’s the only way to wrap my legs around him without tearing the delicate fabric. Still, it tears a little.