Indigo Nights (Nights #3)(6)

Beth

I was used to telling people I was an alcoholic. Granted, not gorgeous strangers who made my skin buzz from a foot away, but still, it felt kind of euphoric to have told Mr. 8A. I hadn’t stayed to watch his reaction. No doubt his jaw would have been on the floor. I laughed to myself and fell back onto the bed in my hotel room.

Dylan James’ gruff exterior and curtness with the cabin crew had been a stark contrast to the way he’d spoken to me about wanting to make me come. I shivered. He’d wanted me and it had felt good, even if our exchange had been a little short-lived. Perhaps when I got back to London I should start dating again. It seemed that that part of me hadn’t shriveled up and died as I’d suspected it might have.

I jumped as the hotel’s phone buzzed. I reached across the bed for the receiver. “Hello?”

“What are you wearing?”

My stomach flip-flopped at Mr. 8A’s voice. He was persistent, even after what I’d told him.

“Are you dirty dialing me?” I pretended to be haughty.

“If I thought you’d play along, I might.” He laughed a deep, filthy chuckle and a desire to smooth my hands across his chest flickered through me. “But seriously. Why did you run off? Will you have dinner with me?”

I’d run off because I’d assumed my confession would put an end to his flirting and his change of heart wasn’t something I wanted to stay and endure. Apparently, I hadn’t scared him away. “Dinner?”

“Yes. Indulge me. It will help pass a few hours at least,” he said.

Indulge him? I’d really like to kiss him. Have him kiss me. I took a deep breath.

“I don’t dine with strangers,” I replied. Should I let myself get to know him? Dinner in a whiteout was hardly a date, after all. More like a pre-date. And it would help me pass the time. He was also the best-looking man ever born, who had still called me after I’d confessed the things about me that should have made him run.

“So make an exception.”

He said it as if it were simple. Like dinner with a man when I wasn’t drinking wasn’t a big deal.

“I don’t date,” I said.

“So make an exception.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you.”

He chuckled. “Maybe, maybe not, but I promise, you’ll have no pressure from me on that score. We both have to eat, after all. We can f*ck later if that’s what you want to do.”

I wanted to slam the phone down on him. He was so arrogant, but his complete confidence drew me in instead of pushing me away, as if it could shield me from hurt rather than expose me to it. If he was so sure of everything, maybe I didn’t have to be. Like he said, it was just dinner. And dinner with someone I never had to see again. It could go really badly, and it wouldn’t matter. I tried to stop the grin forming at the corners of my mouth. “Just dinner?”

“For now.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay.” What did I have to lose . . . other than my mind, my senses, and my confidence?

“Good. Come up to my suite. Room 2035.” He hung up the phone.

I might have agreed to dinner, but I hadn’t agreed to dinner in his hotel room.

How totally presumptuous of him. I’m sure it was obvious I found him attractive, but that didn’t mean I was going to do anything about it. No, there was no way I was going up to his suite. A club sandwich and American Idol would do just fine.

I slid the receiver back on the stand, slumped onto the bed and picked up the remote.

I believed him when he said he wasn’t going to pressure me into having sex with him—his ego wouldn’t allow it. He was a man who didn’t lose control or make mistakes. My going to his suite was convenient, I guess. Private. Better than having to endure the waitresses flirting with him.

I wasn’t about to actually go up there.

But for the first time in years, I wanted to know more about a man. I could go up for a drink and stay ten minutes. Just dip my toe into the water and then leave, right?

I pulled out my makeup case from my carry-on, re-applied the red lipstick he’d noticed and made my way up to floor twenty.

My heart was thumping as I knocked on his door. Was I really about to do this?

Ten minutes.

That was it.

The door swung open and Dylan stood in front of me, his hair slightly more tousled than it had been back in the lounge. He no longer wore a tie or jacket, and the top few buttons on his shirt were undone. The gruff Mr. 8A had relaxed. He didn’t say anything, and I ran through possible greetings to fill the silence before he reached out and brushed his thumb over my cheekbone. My skin burned where he’d touched me. He took a step closer so our bodies were nearly touching and the door swung shut behind him, leaving us both in the corridor. “Hey,” he whispered as if he hadn’t noticed that we were now locked out.

I took a step back. Having him so close had rendered me speechless. I’d expected him to make a move, but I expected a little something before—a drink, dinner, flirting and maybe even conversation. But his hand went to my lower back and he pressed me against him. I gasped and steadied myself by reaching for his forearms. I spread my fingers across the thick muscles under his shirt. His body was hard and tight as I molded against him.

“Look at me. I can see everything you are through those beautiful eyes, and I want to see everything I do to you tonight reflected back at me.”