Eleanor starts raving about the suite they’re staying in, and of course, I’m intrigued.
“It’s so freaking amazing,” she says, her glass empty by now, the ice cubes still faintly coated with bright blue. “The suite is two stories, can you believe it? It’s like a freaking house! It has four bedrooms—or was it five?” She frowns, counting all the rooms on her fingers.
“Two stories, huh? Sounds impressive.” I’ve never stayed at a fancy suite in a Las Vegas hotel. What’s the point? You’re rarely in the room anyway, and even if you are, it’s used for only a few things.
Two of them being sleeping and fucking.
“It is so impressive,” she says with a vigorous nod. “Plus there’s this giant pool table. And the view is like…oh my God.” She rests her hand against her chest, her gaze meeting mine. “You want to see it?”
Well damn. I didn’t expect that invitation tonight. “Yeah. Sure.” I keep my voice cool. Nonchalant. Like no big deal.
But deep down inside, excitement fills me. Hopefully none of her friends are currently in the suite. It’ll just be me and Eleanor.
Alone.
Eleven
Eleanor
We ride up in the elevator standing next to each other in silence. There’s soft music playing from invisible speakers and the walls are mirrored. Even the ceiling. All I can see is myself and Mitch, and I stare unabashedly at his face, which is currently averted, his gaze aimed downward.
It’s a good face. Strong boned. Sharp cheekbones. A few scars here and there, and I can only assume they’re from past football injuries. Granite-hard jaw and chin counterbalanced by that sensuous mouth. Light brown hair that’s a little shaggy. Golden-brown eyes that are friendly and always sparkling when he watches me
And he watches me a lot. As if he likes what he sees. As if he finds me amusing. And not in a bad way. In a good way.
I feel beautiful under his steady gaze. Interesting. Not awkward at all, and I’ve been awkward AF tonight with Mitch, as per usual. I shouldn’t have had those drinks at dinner. And I definitely didn’t need that blue hawaiian at the bar. Whatever they put in there, it sure packed a punch.
Feeling a little woozy, I curl my arm around Mitch’s to anchor myself, smiling up at him when he glances down at me. Did I mention how tall he is? I’m no shrimp, but he towers over me. He makes me feel small and delicate, when I am so not. I’m a sturdy girl. I always have been, and when I blossomed at the age of eleven, there was no stopping it. I had the biggest boobs in the sixth grade. Probably straight through middle school, which I hated at the time. I was so self-conscious.
Eventually, I embraced myself. I have hips and thighs and boobs. There is no mistaking that I’m a woman.
Standing next to Mitch makes me feel like a delicate little flower.
We finally come to a stop at the top floor, and when the doors slide open, we exit the elevator together, our arms still entwined. I lead him to the penthouse suite’s massive double doors, coming to a stop so I can dig the keycard out of my tiny bar-hopping purse. My mom gave it to me a few years ago for Christmas, specifically calling it a bar-hopping purse, and at first, I’d been offended. Like what, she thought I was going out to bars and drinking too much every weekend?
Within a couple of uses, I appreciated the purse. It’s black and tiny and goes with everything. It’s big enough for my phone, a few bucks and my ID and credit card, plus a lipstick. Oh, and when needed, a keycard.
I take said keycard and wave it in front of the super-fancy technological lockscreen, and hear the lock spring open. With a flourish I throw open both doors, smiling over my shoulder at Mitch. “Here we go!”
We enter the giant suite, our footsteps echoing against the marble floor. It’s empty, I can tell, and I’m relieved. I don’t want to deal with my friends.
Not yet.
I can feel the cool breeze from the air conditioning blowing throughout the room, and I shiver. The curtains are pulled back—why, I don’t know—revealing the massive floor-to-ceiling windows and the glittering city stretched out before us.
“What a view,” Mitch says as he approaches the window, stopping right in the center and resting his hands on his hips as he stares out at the cityscape. “Impressive.”
“Isn’t it beautiful?” I walk over to where he’s standing, stopping right next to him.
He glances over at me, appreciation warming his eyes. “Yeah. Sure is.”
Oh. I think he might be talking about me.
This guy. I’ve been feeling nervous all night. Expectant. Hyperaware of everything about him. His scent. His presence. His warmth. His size. I wonder what he tastes like. I wonder what he looks like naked. I wonder what sounds he makes when he’s having sex. I wonder about his dick size.
Yes. I just totally went there. I bet he’s big. Look at him!
Pushing my sex on the brain thoughts, I take him for a short tour around the suite, though I keep it strictly downstairs. Checking out bedrooms might lead to other things, and I don’t want him to think I’m that type of girl on the first date. Even though I’m dying to be that type of girl right now.
Yep. Dying to.
We end up in the kitchen, and he grabs a bottle of cold water out of the fridge. I do the same. We admire the artwork on the walls and I eye the couch, wondering if we should settle in. Naughty things could happen there too, and I’m tempted to make the suggestion. My friends aren’t here yet. We could indulge in a naughty thing or two.
Kissing. That’s all I’m thinking of. Kissing and wandering hands. Maybe hands could slip beneath clothes. Maybe long, thick fingers could slip beneath my panties too…
Focus! No sex! Not yet!
I hate the nagging voice in my head. Really I do.
We find ourselves standing in front of the pool table, and I watch dazedly as Mitch runs his big hand across the vibrant purple felt that covers the table, almost as if he’s caressing it.
I wonder what it would feel like, to have his big hands caressing me.
“You play pool?” he asks, his deep, rumbling voice washing over me.
“Never.”
“I haven’t played since college.” He shrugs. “Don’t have enough time anymore.”
“It looks boring,” I admit. “Though this table is pretty.”
“Looks pretty sturdy.” Mitch reaches out and grips the edge of the sleek wooden edge of the table.
He could be talking to me. Like I thought earlier, I’m a sturdy girl.
“Think it could handle our weight?” I ask.
His head jerks in my direction, his eyes wide as he stares at me for a few seconds too long. As if he’s trying to figure me out. “What do you mean?” he asks slowly.
“I mean, if we were both to crawl on top of that table, could it handle our weight?” I wave a hand at it, surprised by what I’m suggesting.
But yep. I’m not backing down. I put it out there. Let’s see what he does with it.
He considers me for a moment, his hand going to his jaw and giving it a slow stroke. I wish I could touch him like that.
“Let’s try it out and see.” Without warning, he reaches for me and hauls me into his arms. A shriek escapes me when I’m lifted into the air, and I clasp the back of his neck, holding onto him for dear life, afraid he might drop me.