He is above and beyond the drool and flame emojis.
When the stranger coughs, forcing my eyes back to his panty-wetting face, I hook my thumb to the lower level of the suite. “Sorry. Ah.”Get with the program, Miranda.“Is this the honeymoon suite?”
The door buzzed green before I entered.
I’m certain it did.
Unless it was unlocked, and I was burned up with too much anger to pay attention to the color of a flickering light.
I stop hyperfixating on how easy it is to get trampled when you’re hell-bent on revenge when the stranger answers my question. “Thisisthe honeymoon suite.”
Even his voice is sexy. It is a mix of Russian and American, and it rolls over my skin like liquid ecstasy before minimizing my thigh gap.Like it could get any smaller.
“One of four on this floor alone.”
My eyes pop as my throat works hard to swallow. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I have the wrong room.”
I choke on my spit when the stranger replies in a way I never anticipated. “No, you don’t.”
He stands, doubling the output of my heart. He’s tall, easily six foot four, and the span of his shoulders is even more imposing since they’re no longer forced into the curved design of the overpriced armchair.
I watch in suspense as he moves closer. Each timed step doubles the output of my heart. I won’t mention the surge of pulses to the lower half of my body, or you’ll force me to sign Roy’s divorce proposal without pause for thought.
I’m close to doing that without prompting. I’d give everything to pretend he didn’t exist for an hour, to forget I ever agreed to marry him.
I would even be willing to make out I was the only one who broke the infidelity clause of our prenup.
That’s how much this stranger’s presence spikes my blood pressure and has me thinking recklessly.
I’m not the only one feeding off the tension. I suck in a desperate breath when the stranger’s clipped demand breaks through the deep pounding of my pulse in my ears. “Knees. Now.”
“Huh?”
I cough and splatter before scanning the plush carpet indented by the shoes I hid from Roy so he couldn’t suggest I wear them again.
My blisters lasted longer than his combined efforts in the bedroom the entire time we’ve been together.
“Did you lose something?” I blubber when nervous, and it is showcased in the worst way. “I once lost a contact lens at a wedding ceremony. It was an intimate affair, but not even an hour of searching on my hands and knees could find it. I wouldn’t have bothered if I didn’t need it to drive home. I don’t wear contacts because I want different-colored eyes like some peeps. I need them to see.”
I take in the quickest breath. I’m not breathless because I speak in run-on sentences. It is from how close the stranger stands when he meets me at the entryway of the primary suite and how his eyes are even more fascinating up close. They’re like a frozen pond in the Alps in the middle of winter. Fascinatingly unique.
When he smirks like he knows the reason for the heat in my cheeks, he says, “I didn’t lose anything.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nope.” The p in his reply pops and sends a rush of excitement to my core.
I wait and wait and wait for him to continue.
He does, but it isn’t close to what I am anticipating.
“But you did.”
Air hisses through his teeth as rapidly as mine when he flicks back half of my coat to expose the outfit I had hoped would milk my husband of one measly orgasm.
That’s all I wanted—one climax with the hope it would help me survive another three hundred and sixty-five days of misery.
That’s done with now.
