Chapter 8
Curtis
Noise from the hotel hallway roused Curtis from a dreamless sleep. He didn’t need to look at the bedside clock to know it was too damn early for consciousness. His body had committed to a deep and meaningful union with the mattress, and he had no desire to sever that relationship.
Unfortunately, now that his brain had engaged, getting back to sleep would be a chore. One that might require some assistance from a certain dark-haired beauty. He’d tell her she owed him one for staying up all night to crush her former orgasm record. He snorted into the pillow. Yeah, he had a pretty good idea how Sara would respond to being told she owed him something. Now he definitely had to say it.
He swept his arm across the opposite side of the queen-size bed. And connected with nothing but rumpled sheets. Cool sheets, at that.
He rolled from his stomach to his back, then sat up to inspect the room. Curtains closed, bathroom door open. Current occupancy—one. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, they zeroed in on the small pile of pink formerly known as Sara’s bridesmaid dress. Since this wasn’t the type of hotel to offer bathrobes to its guests, what the hell was she wearing when she walked out the door?
His gaze slid to the top of the dresser. Oh man, she hadn’t. She wouldn’t have. Wrong. This was Sara, a woman who’d proven repeatedly she’d do just about anything.
Now he was wide awake. He flung the sheets aside and lunged for the piece of furniture where he’d left his car keys. Not under anything. Not on the floor either. To be sure, he rifled through his jacket and pants pockets. Nada.
All the talking they’d done last night had meant jack shit to Sara. She’d come to his room for sex—which they’d had plenty of—then she’d cleared out like a thief in the night. Only it’d been dawn. And the thief had stolen his fucking car.
He pounded his fists against the dresser. The attached mirror rattled as the lock on the door buzzed.
“Come back later.” He barked the command at whatever member of the housekeeping staff stood on the other side of the door. “Wait ’til I check out, for god’s sake.”
He jerked his head in the direction of the door as it opened, and Sara froze mid-stride, takeout coffee cups in each hand.
“Whoa, somebody is not a morning person.” Her gaze dropped to hip-level—and his ready-to-go cock. “Except for that part. That’s one hell of a morning salute, actually.”
His anger deflated. His cock did the opposite. “You went out in public that way?” That way consisted of his white dress shirt hanging loose over a pair of his black boxers, her tiny purse hanging from one shoulder. The sexy-as-fuck high heels completed her outfit—if you could call it that.
“I couldn’t wear the dress, now could I?” She resumed walking toward him, her hips swaying with each slow, calculated step. “And I looked through your stuff, but you didn’t have anything my size.”
“You were looking in the wrong place.” He palmed the hard-on that felt as if it’d grown two inches since she walked through the door. “Because I have something that’ll fit you perfectly.”
“Perfectly? Quite the claim.”
“Come over here and I’ll show you how true it is.”
She set the takeout cups on the dresser, let her purse fall to the floor. She reached under the shirt and hooked her fingers over the waistband of his shorts, then wiggled them down those shapely legs. One by one, she pushed the white buttons free of their holes, until the front edges of his shirt hung open.
He groaned. No point in hiding his appreciation, not with eight thick, very obvious inches of it jutting in Sara’s direction. He pushed the white material aside and slid his palms over her skin—waist, hips, then higher, to those amazing tits. “You should’ve stayed in bed.”
“I don’t sleep much. And never late.”
He dipped down and sucked one nipple into his mouth, flicked the silver piercing with his tongue. Caught it between his teeth and tugged before letting it slide free. “Who said anything about sleeping?” A feminine gasp rewarded him when he banded her hips with his arms and lifted her off the ground. A couple of strides and he had her where she belonged—on her back and under him.
“My phone,” she said on a moan as I Got You, Babe played from inside her purse while his tongue played its own brand of music between her legs. Her hands cradled the top of his head, but instead of pulling him in, she pushed him away. “I’m expecting a call from Nia.”
“You can call her back.” He nudged past the blockade of her fingers and helped himself to another taste of heaven.
“I have to answer it.” A few seconds’ worth of soft moaning and fruitless wriggling later she said, “Curtis…I have to answer it.”
The use of his name cut through the thick fog of must have this woman now swirling in his head and groin. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her silky thigh. Then stretched, grabbed the strap of her purse and reeled it in. “Make it a quick call.”
Sara
They were en route to her parents’ house when Curtis asked, “So, how did you like driving it?”
“That’s a first. None of the guys I’ve been with have ever referred to sex that way.”
For a couple beats, Curtis just stared at her. Then his deep, husky laugh filled the car’s interior. “The Mustang. Not my cock.” He winked. “I know how much you enjoyed driving that.”
She gave him a shove—and yes, a smile. “I’d tell you not to let it go to your head, but I can see it’s way too late for that.”
He rewarded her with one of his wide, sexy grins that sent sparks racing through her body. “Hey, I’m entitled. I am the new record holder.”
Yes, he certainly was. She’d essentially passed out in his arms around five o’clock, after he’d given her an eighth orgasm. Eighth. She’d been so physically drained from their night together, she hadn’t thought she could come again, and she’d told him as much when he started stroking her.
He’d silenced her protest with a long, deep kiss. Then he’d drawn her close, spoon-style, and made love to her. Not fucking, that last time—lovemaking. Slowly and sweetly, with his cock, with his fingers, drawing one last, slow-burning climax from her body. Thank god he hadn’t been in a position to see her face, because she’d almost cried at the intense intimacy of it.
“As for the Mustang,” his voice pulled her back to the present, “how’d you like it, compared to your Trans Am?”
“I didn’t drive your car.”
He turned his attention from the road to look at her. “I’m not angry you used my car to go get coffee—though I was pissed when I woke up alone and thought you’d just plain taken off in it.”
She turned sideways on the passenger seat. “And why did you think that?”
“You were gone. So were my keys.”
“So you assumed I’d helped myself to your vintage Mustang.” The silence between them said more than any words. Heat coursed through her body, and this time, it had nothing to do with his sexiness. “Of course that’s what you thought. Because this is me we’re talking about, and I’m a troublemaker with a criminal record. The type of person who’d steal your car while you slept.”