I glare at my reflection, then storm back into the other room, only to lurch to a stop when I spot Anya standing at the foot of the bed, naked and looking even more fuckable than before. I take a breath, just to look at her.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Hell if I know who I’m thanking, but I don’t care—the woman standing in front of me is worthy of a thank you to someone, somewhere.
I clear the rest of the room in a few short steps, tugging my shirt off as I walk. Anya watches every step and the moment I’m in front of her, her hands drop to the waist of my jeans, working my pants and boxers down in one move. I kick all of my clothes off to the side and then sit down on the edge of the bed. Anya’s gaze tips downward and her eyes go wide.
“Enjoying the close-up view?” I slide a hand up the inside of one of her thighs, running my fingertips over her when I reach her core. Anya’s answer is a moan. I grin lazily. “Like I said, it’s all for you. Whenever you’re ready, just climb on.”
Anya lets me play for a few moments, her head falling back as my fingers tease her skin. Then she straddles my lap and wraps her hand around my cock, and all I can do is groan. When she starts to take me inside, the first inch is enough to make my eyes fall closed. The next inch has me seeing stars. And every inch after that is almost too much for me to handle.
By the time she’s taken all of me, my hands are on her hips, holding her still just so I can take back some control. When I’m ready, I loosen my grip and start move her body up and down over mine, harder and faster until Anya finally draws her knees in tight to slow my pace.
She threads her hands through my hair, tipping her forehead to meet mine. I let her take what she needs for a few minutes, then slide a hand between us and find her clit with the tips of my fingers. She sinks into a steady rhythm and I urge her on, telling her how good she feels until she finally lets go.
I can’t be patient anymore and flip our positions before she even has a chance to come down, putting her on her back so I can let the man I saw in the bathroom mirror take over. Her bare breasts are in my hands, her legs are wrapped tight around my waist, and I can feel that sweet, hot edge rising up inside me, over my spine and across my shoulders. Anya tips her hips up so that every thrust I give her gets her a little closer to coming again. Then she’s there, digging her nails into the back of my neck as her heat pulses around me. After that, I’m done for.
Everything goes bright white behind my eyelids, and I hazily recognize how I’ve let out a loud, almost brutal sound, one that’s bound to scare the hell out of every other person in the hotel. But I don’t care. Not one fucking bit.
I collapse on the bed next to Anya, staying put until I’m sure I can sit up without blacking out, then drop a kiss to her shoulder before getting up to take care of the condom. When I come back out, she’s tucked under the bedcovers with her hair spread out on the pillow, and a satisfied little smile on her face.
I look at all of my scattered clothing on the floor and then glance back up at Anya, not sure about what happens now. How is a night like this supposed to end? Am I just supposed to get dressed, make sure everything is zipped and buttoned, then tell her thanks as I walk out the door?
Maybe.
Did I want to do that?
Not even a little bit.
What I want to do is leave my clothes right where they are, climb into that bed, and get started on round two. I run a hand through my hair, darting my eyes to the floor.
“Do you want me to stay?”
Anya goes still and the room suddenly feels too small, and too quiet. Inside me, I hate the way I’m silently begging for her to say yes.
She tilts her head, studying me with another one of her calm, easy expressions.
“I’d like it if you stayed,” she says. “If you don’t want to, though, that’s fine—”
That’s all I need to hear. I’m already across the floor, practically leaping onto the bed, soaking up the way Anya’s laugh fills the room. No matter how fucked up my life is on the other side of this hotel room’s door, none of that matters right now. In this room—with Anya—I’m just a guy.
A guy who finally feels good again.
4
Anya
The next morning, I check out of the hotel, pack up my car, and then shut the rear hatch on my trusty Subaru wagon as gently as possible once all of my worldly belongings are loaded inside. I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse that everything I own fits into the back of my car. On the one hand, it’s nice to feel like nothing is weighing me down. On the other, I think it says something about how much I gave up being with Martin, even when it comes to things like furniture. Two years have passed me by and I don’t even have a couch or a mattress that’s mine.
But I breathe a sigh of relief as I sit down in the driver’s seat, glancing at the fuel gauge. Hopefully, what is left in the tank will be enough to get me to the Oro Valley, and the high-end suburban neighborhood where my house-sitting gig is.
My phone rings just as I pull out of the hotel’s parking lot, and I grab it from behind the still-drying canvas that’s propped in the passenger seat. I can thank JT for that, because my blank-canvas funk is officially gone, just as I hoped.
I don’t have to read the phone’s display to know who’s calling, so I answer without even saying hello.
“Yes, I’m alive. No, I haven’t been kidnapped.”
Tara snorts. “And your tattoo guy? Did he live up to your disturbingly low expectations? Or did he exceed them and now everything he says sounds like a great idea, even if it’s some crime spree involving gorilla masks?”
“He more than lived up to expectations. But it’s pretty unlikely that he’d propose a crime spree.”
“Why? Is that because he’s already on probation? Was he wearing an ankle monitor?”
I roll my eyes with a smirk. “Because he’s a cop. A US Marshal, to be specific.”
“What?” Tara half-shouts. “You banged a US Marshal? They’re like cops times a hundred.”
There is an audible groan in the background, followed by Tara’s husband, Alec, gently reminding her that they’re at work. I realize that I’m on speakerphone and offer Alec a hello, which he returns in the Mississippi drawl of his that I adore. The man could read the fine print on a legal document to me and I would still hang on every luscious, unhurried word.
Alec and Tara are joint heads of a biochem research program at the university, which is how the three of us met, nursing watery cocktails during a deathly boring multidepartment mixer three years ago. Their work is complex, and I don’t understand any of it. But I like them way too much to let my own shortcomings in the sciences keep us from being friends. They’re both heavily tattooed, brilliant, and prone to giving me more credit than I deserve most of the time, which means I can’t imagine my world without them in it.
Tara mutters a reply to Alec’s comment. “Yes, dear. I remember that we agreed not to talk like rowdy oil rig operators in the lab. But I can’t just sit here and pretend like Anya picking up a cop doesn’t justify a few follow-up questions. This is Anya. A woman who was taught the history of civil disobedience before she learned how to ride a bike. Her parents know where Edward Abbey is buried, for fuck’s sake. She bagged an officer of the law last night.”