A Short Story
Usually, when I spend a whole night in a man’s bed, it’s for one of two reasons. Either I’ve had too much bourbon and fallen asleep before I could slip out. Or I’ve purposely gone home with him to assess his security system. (You really have to sleep with the guy after that. Otherwise, you’re the first one he suspects when the place gets robbed, or when that copy you made of his Amex starts buying up lobster dinners and plane tickets to Miami.)
Both perfectly good excuses. But neither seemed to apply this morning.
No, the reason I was still in this room, in this bed, was simple.
I was handcuffed to the headboard.
“I’m not staying here,” I nudged him with my foot. Where are my clothes? My car keys? “You make terrible coffee.” I need my phone.
“I’m not letting you go,” his breath was warm against my shoulder, but he didn’t open his eyes. He shifted his arm across me, pulling me closer, and just for a second, I went soft against all that naked skin and hard muscle.
“Don’t kiss me. Do NOT kiss me.” I’m thinking about yoga. I’m focused. I’m breathing slowly, deeply, evenly.
His lips started nibbling on my neck, lightly at first, and then not so lightly. My ear was next. My hairline, my cheek.
“Babe, you can’t still be mad about Toronto,” I whispered. I’d left him there weeks ago, his hair much shorter, his banker image perfect. Clean-shaven and neatly trimmed. Not like now, with three days worth of sexy stubble. Not with long curls brushing over my breasts, making me wish my hands were free so I could —
“I’m not letting you go. Not yet.” His mouth, hot and determined, finally settled over mine.
I’m NOT thinking about yoga. I’m NOT thinking about downward dog or puppy stretch or happy baby.
He freed my hands one at a time then pulled me into his arms, pressing every inch of his body into mine. “Dallas,” he groaned. “I want it just like Dallas.”
Dallas. Hot and steamy and spilled champagne all over the bed. We’d walked away with a cool million in Dallas. I’d spent the whole night quivering on top of him while he bucked and thrashed. Then I snuck out before dawn. I only took my half of the plunder, too, even though I could’ve scarfed it all.
“London,” I said, rolling over on my belly. Cloudy and grey and lightning-fast. They almost caught us in London. We had to leave the cash behind, but not the diamonds. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.
He stretched out over me, his legs pushing mine apart. A gentleman takes his weight on his hands, my mother used to say, but sometimes a girl wants it all. All of him.
“You’re going to remember this one, too.” His voice, still thick with sleep, was always my undoing. He would make sure I remembered Santa Barbara, where we’d just sold a yacht we didn’t own to buy a hideaway in the Caymans.
Santa Barbara. Pink sky and soft breezes and all this delicious man weight, pressing me down.
My clothes from last night were rolled up in a ball on the floor.
“We’re in the clear, Babe,” I said, untangling my panties from my jeans. “So let’s just pretend this never happened.”
He kissed my shoulder one last time and stood up. Before I even snagged my shoes from under the chair, he was dressed and at the door, finger combing his hair. Typical. Even when he’d just rolled out of bed he looked styled and air-brushed. I’d need a shower, a manicure and 8 quarts of coffee to look half that good.
He turned back to flash me that megawatt smile. “Seattle?”
I shook my head. “Denver.” Fresh powder, warm cognac, stone fireplaces.
“I like snow.” He winked. The door closed gently behind him.
Visit Kay at KayBolden.com.
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