The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(118)

Together.





HAYDEN

The car pulls into the underground parking lot, and I peer out the window in awe.

So many fancy cars all lined up.

We come to a stop beside the elevator, and the driver pops the trunk and hops out to retrieve our luggage.

“We won’t be going out again tonight,” Christopher tells him. “You may finish up.”

“Yes, sir.” He nods. “Would you like me to take your bags up for you?”

“No, I’ve got it. Thanks.”

“See you in the morning.” He turns to me with a kind smile. “Good night, Miss Whitmore.”

“Good night.” I smile. Oh, I like this driver. He’s a nice person; I can tell.

Christopher takes his big backpack and swings it onto his back and goes to take mine, too, and I hold the strap. “I’ve got it.”

“I’ll carry it up.”

“I am quite capable of carrying my own backpack, Christopher,” I huff. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”

He chuckles and drops it at my feet. It lands with a thud.

“You could have passed it to me,” I scoff.

“Wouldn’t want to insult your intelligence,” he mutters as he gets into the elevator. He turns to face the front with a mischievous look on his face.

I know that look.

I step in beside him and turn to face the front. “I suppose this apartment is going to be another dumpster fire.”

He chuckles. “You could say that.”

“And the bed?”

“Already been burned and a new one installed for your highness.”

“So where are we sleeping?”

“The new one is ready and waiting to be corrupted with your forever-faithful servant.”

“You’ve thought of everything.” I smile.

He links his pinkie finger through mine, and we both smile as we stare at the doors. Such a simple and small gesture, but . . . it means so much.

“Leather couch, white bathrooms,” I say.

He frowns over at me. “What do you mean?”

“I’m guessing that you have a leather couch and white marble bathrooms.”

He smiles . . . he likes this game. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I know your taste.”

“Oh.” He raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You want to bet on it?”

“Yep.” I hold my hand out to shake his. “Fifty bucks.”

His eyes twinkle in delight. “No, no, no, I only bet for things that I need.”

“Such as?”

“Anal.”

“What?” My eyes widen.

The elevator door opens, and he smiles over at me. “You heard me. I want to see how much of a gambler you really are.” He leans down and puts his lips to my ear and whispers, “If you’ll put your body on the line.”

I bite my lip to hide my smile.

It’s a test.

I roll my lips as I stare at him. This could backfire badly.

“All right . . . anal.” I hold my hand out, and we shake on it.

He opens the door with an evil laugh, and as I put my hands over my eyes, I laugh. “Don’t. I can’t even look.”

“Don’t worry, I have lube,” he teases as he pulls me through the apartment. My hands are still over my eyes.

“Stop it.”

“Ta-da.” He pulls my arms down, and we are in the most beautiful living room of all time. A chocolate leather couch sits proud as punch in the center of the room.

“Ha.” I laugh. “I knew it.”

“But . . . are the bathrooms white?”

I smile. I like this game too.

I turn and run up the stairs to find his bedroom as he chases me. I run down the large hallway and into the bedroom and stop dead in my tracks.

The air leaves my lungs, and my mouth falls open as I look around.

The bedroom is filled with red roses.

Vase after vase.

Beautiful roses with huge heads.

My eyes find his. “What’s this?”

“Well . . .” He shrugs casually as he looks around. “If I’m going to fuck you up the ass . . . I want it to be romantic.”

I burst out laughing, and his eyes hold mine as he laughs too. He takes me into his arms and kisses me softly.

“Is the bathroom white?” I murmur against his lips.

“No.”

I pull out of his arms and walk into the bathroom. “Got you,” I cry.

A white marble bathroom sits in all its grandeur.

“Fuck off.” He screws up his face. “How did you know that?” He turns the shower on and slams me up against the tiles. His lips take mine with hunger, and then he pulls me in under the water, clothes and all. We kiss, frantic and wild.

It’s hot and wet . . . and perfect.

Like him.

With our lips locked, he pulls my wet shirt off over my head.

“Who brought the roses over?” I ask.

He unzips my jeans and slides them down. “Elliot.”

I giggle as I step out of the wet pants. “You made your brother bring me flowers?”

“Yes.” He kisses me. His tongue swipes through my open lips. “He’s working with me on the romantic-anal thing. It’s a two-man job.”