Unforgettable: Book Two (A Hollywood Love Story #2)(55)
Brandon insists on me wearing his linen shirt over my dress after our swim to keep warm as well as on carrying me back to the Ducati. And when we get to The Carlton after leaving the banged up bike and our helmets with the valet, he insists on carrying me through the lobby to the elevator. Not only doesn’t he want me to walk because of my fragile condition, I’m shoeless. I tossed my heels into a trash can in The Old City when I ran away from him. Barefoot, I could step on something nasty and get hurt. He’s so overprotective, but I give in to him. And besides, it’s fun. I’m riding him piggyback-style—something I used to love doing with Pops when I was a little girl. I haven’t done it in years.
“Hold on,” he says as he bounces me toward the elevator.
“I am.” I start giggling at the double meaning of my words. My legs are wrapped around him, his arms hooked under my knees, and my arms draped over his broad shoulders. The ride is stimulating my nipples, the friction of his bare skin against them arousing me. I swear there must be a power cord that plugs into my *. And it’s sparking. I could easily come again.
The Carlton is buzzing. International movers and shakers occupy the bar, already making strategic partnerships and distribution deals for the year ahead. I spot Blake Burns in an animated conversation with two Japanese broadcasters. I hope he doesn’t see me. And then again, I don’t care. Thanks to tight security, paparazzi are nowhere in sight.
When we get to the elevator, Brandon punches the UP button. To my relief, a car comes quickly and the doors part instantly. Mortification races through me. Standing before us is Blake Burns’s lovely wife, Jennifer, wearing a sexy red cocktail dress I recognize from Chaz’s collection. Gah! What is she going to think? Brandon’s bare-chested; I’m wearing his shirt and have a tangle of wet hair, and we’re both sprinkled with a fine layer of sand. I smile sheepishly and squeak, “Hi.”
She steps out of the car and the doors close behind her before we can get in.
She gives us the once over and then flashes a big smile. “Looks like you guys had fun.”
“We went for a swim,” Brandon says without reservation.
And that’s not all we did. It’s hard to tell if Jennifer knows we f*cked our brains out. No fan of Katrina’s, she’s not passing judgment.
“After you wash up, why don’t you both join Blake and me for drinks?”
Unwavering, Brandon replies, “Thanks, but we’re going to pass with MIP starting tomorrow and the big Kurt Kussler event in the evening. Plus, I have some work to do with Zoey.”
“Totally understand. Don’t work her too hard.” Jennifer winks at him. Oh yeah, she so knows. “I’ll see you both tomorrow at The Palais. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“You too,” says Brandon before she heads toward the bar area. He slaps the UP button again and the elevator doors immediately re-open. With me still riding his back, we step inside the elegantly appointed lift.
“Do you think she suspects something?” I ask Brandon as the doors close.
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
Drunk with love, I burst into laughter. “That’s so not original.”
“Shut. Up. Or I’ll have to f*ck your mouth into silence.”
Not knowing if I’m going to laugh my head off or suck him off, I reach for my floor button. But Brandon grabs my wrist and stops me midway.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask as he forces my hand down.
He answers my question with a question. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To my room.”
“Nothing doing. You’re sleeping with me.”
My breath hitches. I kiss him everywhere I can as he waves his key card over the button marked PH—the exclusive penthouse floor. The elevator smoothly ascends with no stops. I can’t stop loving him.
Brandon’s Sean Connery suite is almost as big as his house. It’s got to be close to five thousand square feet. Stunning black and white photos of the debonair actor in his James Bond finery line the walls and meet my eyes first. The rest of the décor is classical, the rooms tastefully filled with plush furnishings in muted tones of brown, beige, and tan. Complementary textured rugs cover the dark hardwood floors while creamy silk curtains accent the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a terrace and the city. The panoramic view of the Croisette and the Mediterranean is breathtaking.
Brandon takes me directly to the ginormous bathroom. What makes it really spectacular is that it’s circular—the sexy, curvy shape dictated by its position directly beneath one of the hotel’s Belle époque arched domes. All creamy marble and shiny chrome with pale blue accents, it’s a suite within a suite, with separate bathing and toilet areas. The lights are dim. He sets me down on a marble vanity and then reaches for the wall phone. He holds the receiver to his ear and speaks into it. My eyes fix on his flexed bicep and the rigid muscles of his sculpted back. His skin is bronzed velvet. Christ, he’s gorgeous. A f*cking sex god. Even his sultry voice excites me.
“Oui, this is Monsieur Taylor in the Sean Connery suite. I’d like to order two hot chocolates, two shots of crème de cacao, and a plate of praline truffles if you don’t have M&Ms.” He pauses and then smiles. “Oui, beaucoup de whipped cream.”
He hangs up the phone and faces me. “Are you okay with that? I thought maybe we’d get hungry later.”