“Perfect. Do it. We’ll take their best.”
“Nothing but,” she croons. “Anything else?”
“No—wait. Yes. Check the security video for the hallway in front of my suite. Copy it from about eight o’clock last night until right now. I’d like to review it with Jed.” Jed is our head of security here at this Vegas Strip resort, Litraeon.
Click.
“We’re moving,” I announce, carrying a glass of water for Amanda back to the bed, handing it to her.
She immediately pours it down her front, starting with the collarbone, the water cascading down her torso, pearling on her nipples, rolling down the slope of her breasts like something out of really high-quality porn.
“That’s not how you drink water,” I explain. How drunk is she?
“I cannot have Donald Trump all over my breasts!” She takes a corner of a sheet and rubs furiously at her chest, her tits bouncing. It’s a delightful sight. I start to tent my pink silk bathrobe.
“Who were you talking to?” she asks as she rubs. I imagine her rubbing hand on a part of me that loves to be rubbed.
And I’m hard.
“Brona. My main person here at Litraeon. We’re moving.”
Amanda pauses. “We’re what?”
“In an hour. We’re getting a better suite.”
“Why?”
“Because this one is a mess.”
Because I can’t handle being surrounded by signs that I lost control last night and holy hell are we really married?
Keeping my mouth shut is my primary business skill. I don’t speak that random thought. I’m not stupid.
“Then get someone to clean it.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t stand to wait that long.”
“You’d rather move?”
“It’s easier.”
“Where are we going?”
“Next door.”
“Next door? Why?”
“So we can do some corporate espionage.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“You’re orange and you’re judging me?”
“You’re orange too, buddy. Go look in the mirror.”
She points to the bathroom.
Every bit of the room goes into soft focus, my eyes only on her. In the craziness of this morning, I haven’t really looked at her. For five days she’s been all I touch, all I see, all I feel and want to feel. We’ve spent these days in Vegas in a vortex of sex and damage control. Shannon and Declan’s wedding damage control. Between media reports and PR tracking and press inquiries and thousands of personal and professional messages that have eaten up nearly every waking hour of my time, the stolen moments with Amanda have been entirely about sex.
Not that I’m complaining.
I cross my arms over my chest. The cold metal ring registers against my ribs.
Being orange is the least of our worries.
“Amanda.”
The grin she gives me is part pain, part jaunty. “You can’t even look because you know I’m right.”
“Amanda.”
This time, her grin falters, her eyes tip up, looking at me. I take in the bandages on her arms, the curve of one breast against the pillow, the disorienting range of her chest, and the wild hair.
I love every inch of what I see.
“Amanda,” I say again, across the room in a flash, one knee on the bed, then the other, and my mouth is on hers before I realize what I’m doing. The wet sheets twist between us and her hands are under the damn pink silk robe I’m wearing, on my back, flat and imploring, pulling me to her. I wiggle out of the frock. We’re reeling from waking up married. Maybe. We’re half-drunk and hungover and embarrassed and confused.
At least, I am. I suppose I should ask her how she feels, but based on the little moans and sighs coming out of her, I’m guessing she’s not suffering right now.
Sex is easier than talking. Sex is better than working.
Kissing her is better than—
“Coffee,” she whispers.
“Sex is better than coffee?”
“Who said that?”
“You did.”
“No, I didn’t!” She pushes me off her and stands, holding her head between her palms. “I mean, it is. Normally. But not right now.”
Bzzzz.
I grab my phone. Gina.
“Is that a resignation letter from your new admin?” Amanda wanders out into the living room. “Holy shit!” she says, reacting to the mess out there. “Why doesn’t this hotel room have a coffee maker? You own the resort! Make them add coffee makers!”
I thought she was panicking about the sex toy cemetery out there.
“You don’t need to mystery shop our room.”
“I do when your company is so barbaric that they don’t provide coffee makers. You have complimentary bathrobes and you can’t manage coffee?”
Tap tap tap.
Amanda lets out a tiny scream of surprise. “Who the hell is that?” She half-shuffles, half-sprints back into the bedroom, a Cheeto-marshmallow treat in one hand, a glass of water in the other.
“Probably the coffee.” I set my phone on the nightstand and grab a white robe from the closet, shrugging into it. Amanda does the same, only this time she’s wearing the pink robe I left on the bed. She looks exhausted and sweet, all at the same time.
Her face softens. “You ordered me a breve?”
“Of course.” I don’t mention that Brona probably did.
I’m right. Room service appears with a rolling table filled with all of our favorites. Two pre-made breves, a small pot of espresso, a small pitcher of frothed light cream, fruits and baked goods, and scrambled eggs and bacon.