A room with a door that I’ve debated closing and locking behind me when I go to bed. Or is it better to leave it propped open so I know what’s going on in the rest of the hotel? Which should be nothing.
I double-check the entry doors on the bottom floor to make sure they’re locked as one of my favorite songs comes on. I have no shame as I dance down the hallway. With each shimmy and shake, I discard an item of clothing, before closing the door behind me and dumping clothes unceremoniously on the bed. The room is dim, save for a muted desk lamp and the bathroom light I left on earlier.
I give another little shimmy and a hard shake of my hips before twirling around and running smack dab into something.
Or rather into someone.
A whole lot of wet, naked someone.
The screech I emit is on a whole other level as I jolt back—earbuds falling out, phone clattering to the ground. I have a brief glimpse of the man in front of me. Chiseled and tanned and perfect and . . . cock. Oh my God. I’ve just seen Fordham Sharpe’s impressive cock.
The thought registers at the same time I step in a puddle of water and my feet slip out from under me.
I fall backward in all my own naked glory—boobs bouncing, arms flailing, and hips jiggling. Graceful isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe me. Instinct has me reaching out to Ford, and he tries to catch me.
But then he slips in the same water that I do.
His curse echoes off the tile walls, followed by the oomph as I hit the chaise lounge behind me, seconds before Ford lands smack dab on top of me.
I’d like to think my first thought is thank God these old, oversized bathrooms have a soft chaise lounge in them I could fall on instead of the hard edge of the bathtub. That should be what’s first and foremost on my mind. My safety.
But it’s kind of hard to think rationally when the only thing that’s hard is about six foot three inches and planking my entire body right now.
And whose hands are grabbing my wrists beside my head and whose grinning mouth is inches from mine.
I’ve never been more aware of every nerve ending in my body than I am at this moment.
We stare at each other for a beat. I’m not sure if our minds are catching up with what just happened to our bodies, but our eyes lock and our bodies tense.
Which of course presses that rather impressive cock against my thighs.
“I’m sorry,” we say in unison.
Kiss me.
It’s not the first time I’ve thought it.
It most likely won’t be the last either.
How can any normal woman not think something like that when she’s skin-to-skin, body to body, with a man as gorgeous as Ford?
I part my lips to say something, anything, as the agonizing and embarrassing seconds tick by.
“You’re in my bathroom. What are you doing here? What in the hell do we do?”
He chuckles. “You’re in my bathroom. I texted you that I was coming.” He quirks an eyebrow at his word of choice, his grin widening, and his voice suddenly lowering. “And as far as what we do now . . .”
His eyes shift to his right seconds before I catch a glimpse of something glance through his eyes. A warning? Fear? I don’t exactly know what, but he pushes up off of me in a hurry. Before I can comprehend what’s happening, yet again, Ford throws a bath towel my way, giving me nothing but a perfect view of his bare ass as he walks away.
I look.
Of course, I look as I scramble to wrap the towel around me and rise from my more than awkward position on the chaise—because it’s hard not to.
“What in the hell are you doing here? Why?” I ask as he keeps his back to me and yanks another towel off the towel rack next to the shower door.
“Taking a shower. Clearly.” Annoyance tinges the edges of his tone when moments ago he was lying on top of me, smirking.
“But my bags were in the room. I was here first. You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.” I sputter each sentence out.
“And I texted you I was coming early. I called out when I came in the front door. It’s not my fault you had earphones in or didn’t check your phone,” he says, and I’m confused by his sudden wintry tone.
When he turns to face me, he’s holding the towel over his crotch so that every maddening gorgeous inch of him is on display. The hip dents. The happy trail. The firmness of his thighs. The definition in his chest.
Lord, have mercy.
I make a concerted effort to look up at his eyes, and when I do, there’s indifference in his expression, almost anger, that matches the tone of his voice. That throws me.
Talk about fueling a woman’s insecurities in herself when she’s at her most vulnerable.
He’s in my shower. In my bathroom. When I’m supposed to be alone. And he’s mad at me?
“You shouldn’t be here.”
But don’t be surprised if you get there and he pushes you aside and steamrolls you right out of the picture. The Sharpes don’t take a back seat to anyone.
Chandler’s words flood back to me and sow seeds of doubt that shouldn’t be there. “Come again?”
He drops his head for a beat. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what exactly did you mean because last I checked, I own half of this building too.”
“You do. We both do. Fifty-fifty.” He chuckles and holds one hand up in front of him, the smile I’ve come to know breaking through the pained expression on his face.
Despite his smile, I’m already on the defensive. Already primed for a fight reserved for Chandler that Ford doesn’t deserve.
“Then why are you being a dick? You were in my room. In my shower. Using my towel that I brought here.” I point to the one he holds over his dick.
“Fine. Here’s your towel back,” he says, holding it out to me without flinching. My eyes meet his, hold, and as much as the woman in me wants to look, I refuse to back down from the dare sparking in his eyes. I meet him gaze for gaze and in a sudden moment of bravado, not to be upstaged by him—my partner—I drop my own towel.
He emits a hiss in restraint, a smile toying with the corner of his mouth as his eyes widen.
“What?” I ask innocently. It takes everything I have to stand there. I’m not modest by any means, but willingly standing in front of a man as gorgeous as him is a feat in and of itself. Talk about feeling insecure. “It’s only fair since everything between us from here on out will be fifty-fifty.”
“Even-steven.” His ghost of a smile turns into a full-blown grin.
It’s a game of chicken. Who will look first? Whose curiosity will make them break? Which one of us will swerve first?
“Good.” I return the grin and the dare that paints its edges. “Now that that’s settled, you can see your way out. I’m going to take my shower now.”
“Don’t forget your towels. I wouldn’t want you to not have anything to dry off with,” he says as he takes a step back, his eyes dipping down briefly.
He swerved.
And I promptly follow suit and do the same. Yep. Still gorgeous. Still hung. Still the definition of perfection.
Our eyes meet again. Jesus. The aloofness he just had? Completely gone. The man knows how to look at a woman and make her feel like she’s the only one in the room.
Granted I am, but I’m talking figuratively.