The Hating Game(77)
“You wouldn’t have been sitting there alone. I would have been there. It would have been me.”
My mouth drops open, and he raises a hand to silence me.
“You think he’s your friend, but he wants more from you. It’s painfully obvious. Next time I see him, I’m going to explain a few things about you and me. Just so he’s clear.”
“Is that right? I think you should try explaining things to me first.”
“The entrance is there.”
I pull up in front of the Port Worth Grand Hotel. It glows, opulent and gold, lawns groomed to perfection in the beam of our headlights. A parking valet signals to me and I manage to put the car in park and slide out onto shaky legs, grabbing at my purse.
I go to the trunk, but another hotel guy dressed like a toy soldier is already taking our bags out. Josh looks on with a bored, irritated expression.
“Thank you.” I tip them both. “Thank you so much.”
Josh goes to the reservations desk. The receptionist visibly flinches when blasted by his blue laser-eyes. I turn a full circle in the lobby. Everything is in shades of red; strawberry, ruby, blood, wine. A giant tapestry with a faded medieval scene hangs down one wall. A lion and a unicorn both kneel before a woman. A chandelier hangs above me from the center of an elaborately corniced ceiling. There is a spiral staircase above me, scrolling up about four floors in concentric circles. It’s like being inside a heart.
“It’s something, huh?” A man in a suit says to me from the bar nearby.
“It’s gorgeous.” I have my hands clasped in front of me like a schoolgirl. I look for Josh, but I can’t see him.
“It looks even better from here at the bar,” the suit guy says, gesturing me over.
“Nice try,” Josh says sharply, joining me. He scoops an arm around me and walks me toward the elevator. I hear a laughed apology—Sorry, pal!—behind us.
“How many keys do you have in your hand?” He presses the elevator button and he holds up a single swipe card like he’s got the winning poker hand.
“Only a certain number of rooms were reserved for the wedding. I tried to get you your own room but the entire hotel is booked. This is Patrick’s idea of a joke.”
I know when he’s lying, and he’s not. He’s completely irritated. I look over my shoulder at the receptionist, who is being comforted by his supervisor.
When we find our room, he takes four tries to get the swipe card into the door handle. I take two attempts to get past him when he holds the door open, but when I accidentally bump into him every rounded girly part of me bumps across him like a ball in a pinball machine. Boob, hip, ass.
Our bags are deposited. Josh tips. The door shuts and we are alone.
Chapter 21
The way he lays the swipe card on the dresser to his left is slow and deliberate. I briefly feel fear. He’s a huge, dark, shaking mass walking toward me, atoms vibrating, blurring my vision as he steps to me and presses his toe against mine.
The Staring Game has never before taken place in a locked hotel room.
He releases the button on my coat with the snap of his fingers. The traitorous garment flips open, as if to say Help yourself, mister! He slides his hands inside, and his eyelashes droop a little when I arch into his touch. He anchors his fingers at the small of my back, fingers digging softly into my spine.
“Let’s do this.” I should write sonnets. I hook my hand into his belt and tug him toward the bed. He lowers me down carefully onto the edge of the mattress and cuffs my ankle with one hand. I can feel him shaking. He takes my shoes off and puts them beside the bed tidily.
It’s been forever since I last felt a man’s skin against mine. For as long as I’ve known Josh, I’ve been celibate. I probably have some confusion in my eyes when I realize it. He sees it, and strokes his finger under my chin.
“I was more angry at myself just now.”
He kneels down between my feet. A nice boy, kneeling beside his bed, about to say his prayers.
His dark blue eyes are stubborn when he looks at me again. I am certain he’s about to kiss my cheek and leave, so I hook one leg around his waist and tug him into the cradle of my thighs. A noise like oof falls out of his mouth and I take his jaw in both of my hands and kiss him.
Usually, he likes kissing soft. Tonight, I like kissing hard. I press his mouth open the moment our lips touch. He tries to slow me, but I won’t let him. I nip at him until he pushes his hips against me. I feel a solid thud against me.
If I ever thought I was an addict before, it was a vast understatement. I want to OD on him. By the end of this weekend, I’ll be legless in a back alley, unable to say my own name. At least I understand this lust. I can deal with this, and frankly, it’s the only outlet we’ve got. I am holding him with my legs and arms in an iron grip and it’s a surprise when I feel a dropping sensation. I open my eyes and realize he’s standing up, taking me with him.
“Are you going to kill me tonight?” he asks against my mouth, and I kiss him again fiercely.
“I’m going to try.”
My last boyfriend, the last man I had sex with forever ago, was only about five-six. He could never have picked me up. He’d have ruptured a disc in his fragile, boy-sized spine. Josh sinks down onto a beautiful wing-backed armchair I’d only dimly registered when we first came in.