Mister O(37)

“My zipper is stuck. And you never told me where you wanted to meet, but I remembered your floor from when we checked in, and I knocked on a few doors, taking a chance, and someone down the hall asked if I had the chocolate-covered strawberries they ordered, and obviously I don’t, but they sounded really good, and well, here I am, thinking about strawberries and hunting for your room while my zipper is stuck.”

A grin tugs at my mouth at everything she just said, but I key in on the last one. “Your zipper’s stuck?”

She turns around and shows me, and it’s a tangled, mangled mess, caught in the red strands of her hair. I grab her arm, pull her into my room, and guide her to the edge of the bed. Sitting her down, I appraise the zipper. “Your hair is in the zipper.”

“I know,” she says with a huff. Then softer, “Can you fix it?”

“Yes.”

She breathes a sigh of relief.

“What did you do to make this happen?” I push some of the loose hair off her back. The dress has two slim straps, and her shoulders are exposed. Her skin is pale, and I want to kiss it.

“I was in my room,” she says as I start working on the zipper, gently tugging a few strands from the teeth.

“I thought Jen corralled you?”

“She did, but then I escaped, and I didn’t hear back from you right away, so I went to my room to change into something else and let my hair down, and when I started to take off the dress, my hair got stuck and this happened.”

“My message didn’t go through. But I had texted you my room number,” I say, as I free more pieces of her hair.

“You did?” she asks, and I can hear a smile in her voice.

“Yes. When you sent me your list of meeting places.”

“I found you anyway. I wanted to find you,” she says, and I freeze, my hands stilling on her zipper.

Find me.

That’s what I’ve wanted from her—for the lightbulb to go off, and for Harper to see I’m the one she wants.

“You’re a good detective. I’ll get you those chocolate-covered strawberries if you want,” I tease.

“I don’t want that right now. I want something else.”

“What do you want?” I ask as I resume my work, practically holding my breath with the hope that she wants the same thing I do.

“I want the night with you not to end.”





17





She came looking for me . . . and her hair is stuck in her zipper. I’ve got to focus on part two of that first. I wiggle the zipper one way, then the other, then back again, until at last, her hair is free and the zipper is undone.

I don’t unzip it. Not yet. Instead, I sweep all her hair off her back. “Your zipper is fixed,” I tell her, as I press my fingertips against her bare shoulder.

“Your hands,” she murmurs. “You have good hands. You know what to do with them.”

“I do know what to do with them, and what I want to do with them,” I say, as my fingers travel to the edge of her shoulder. Even this small touch turns me on like crazy. “And I want to touch you so f*cking much.”

“Oh God, please touch me.” The words spill out of her in a breathless rush.

Everywhere there are sparks. Just everywhere—lighting up my skin, spreading inside me like wildfire. I run my left hand down her arm. The little hairs on her arms stand on end as I trace her soft skin, my fingers heading for her wrist. I lay my hand on top of hers, and she opens her fingers. I slide mine between hers, and she gasps.

That sound ignites me, makes me want to never stop touching her.

I clasp her hand, and it feels erotic and romantic at the same time, and I’ve never in my life enjoyed holding hands this much. It’s as if every cell of hers reaches for me, and every nerve inside me blazes for her. I have never felt so sure that a feeling is mutual before. Never.

She wraps her fingers tightly around me, and I’m pretty much done. I brush my lips against the back of her neck, and my mind goes hazy with desire.

“Oh,” she says, a gentle moan.

She tastes so f*cking good. With my free hand, I thread my fingers in her soft, silky hair and skim my nose across her neck, inhaling her, letting her scent wash over me, like the best drug. She doesn’t smell like springtime; she reminds me of honey, and oranges, and all my fantasies. I nip her neck, flicking my tongue over her flesh. The need to kiss her everywhere builds.

Her shoulders rise and fall, her breathing grows fast, and her fingers grip me harder. I layer kisses all over the back of her neck, drawing out moans, and gasps, and sighs that drive me crazy. They tell me how much she’s into this. How much more she wants.

I’ve been dying to kiss her lips, to feel her body mold to me. Now, here she is, alone in my hotel room, and she came for me, and that staggers me. It’s everything I wanted and refused to believe would happen.

“Harper.”

“Yes?” It sounds like she’s dreaming.

“What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

I ask not because I’m unsure, not because I’m worried she doesn’t want it, but because she likes to talk about kissing, I’ve learned.

She’s feathery soft as she answers me, “I would probably melt.”

Or maybe I will.