Page 53 of Yours, Unexpectedly

Jessica’s head immediately snaps up. “Oh, Mr. Olsson! I didn’t realize you’d be joining us this evening.” She eyes the bags still slung over our arms and the large garment bags with our outfits for tonight. Snapping her fingers, she calls over our shoulders, “Kenneth! The luggage for Mr. Olsson and his… guest.”

Message heard loud and clear, Jessica. I roll my eyes, but Anders just slides his hand around my waist and squeezes.

“You’re in the Carnegie Suite on the eighteenth floor. Will that suit your needs, Mr. Olsson?” she asks in a voice that sounds a little too sultry to me.

“That will be just fine, Jessica. Thank you,” Anders replies and I have to bite my lip to stop my giggle at seeing this side of him.

We walk over to the elevator and are blissfully alone as we ride up to the eighteenth floor. Anders doesn’t say anything, but he does grab my hand, lacing our fingers together before pulling it up to his mouth to kiss each one individually.

When we get to the door of our room, Anders unlocks it and holds it open for me to walk past him. “Damn. This is the nicest hotel room I’ve ever seen.” I walk over to the window, moving the heavy, and probably extremely expensive, curtains out of the way. “Holy shit! You can see Central Park from here!”

I feel Anders come up behind me, wrapping his hands around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder.

“Will this suit your needs, Mr. Olsson?” I tease as I turn and drape my arms over his shoulders.

He growls before picking me up, walking me into the bedroom—because there is a separate bedroom and living room in this fancy ass hotel room—and throwing me onto the bed. Slowly, he crawls up over me, and whispers into my ear, “I’ll suit your needs, you brat.”

And suit my needs, he does.

With his tongue, in the comfiest bed I’ve ever laid in.

As we dry hump on the velvet couch.

In the bathtub big enough for two, while I’m nuzzled between his thick thighs and his hand works me like I’m his favorite instrument.

Yeah, he suits my needs, alright.

She’s got one piece of hair that’s always slightly straighter than the rest of her curls. It sticks out and she’s always trying to tuck it back in amongst the chaos. It’s stubborn, just like she is.

I think about that piece of hair a lot.

Bex has locked herself in the bathroom and won’t let me see her until she’s completely ready. She’s had Taylor Swift blaring since she went in there over an hour ago, and every once in a while I can hear her singing with the music.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in my tux, and I’m an anxious mess. My knee is bouncing up and down as if I can work all of my energy out through my restless fidgeting.

You would think I would be exhausted after wringing three delicious orgasms out of Bex, but that just amped me up even more. I wipe a hand down my face. I really wish I didn’t feel the need to wait to have sex with Bex. As she was grinding down on me on the couch earlier, I almost flipped her over, pulled her panties to the side, and plunged into her.

But I want her to want me—all of me—before we take that step. Sex has never been a big deal to me, but with Bex it feels like everything. Like handing my heart to her on a silver platter and I don’t know what I would do if she crushed it. So I’m still holding back, but my dick is definitely not happy about it.

“Are you ready?” Bex asks from the other side of the bathroom door.

“I was born ready, baby,” I joke, because I can hear the nerves in her voice.

She opens the door and it feels like the time I accidentally fell off the edge of the stage when I was in high school. All of the breath in my lungs has been knocked out of me at the sight of Rebecca Bardot standing in front of me. I clutch my chest in admiration.

She’s gorgeous and I’m a lucky bastard.

Bex does a little twirl, preening under my attention.

Her dress is emerald green silk or satin or something, with a fitted top and little sleeves that fall off her shoulders. The skirt puffs out at the waist but has a large slit that goes all the way up to her mid-thigh. On her feet are dainty gold heels that she is definitely keeping on later. Her hair is half up, clipped with a sparkling gold barrette, allowing loose curls to fall down her back and frame her face. She has more makeup on than normal and her red lips look delectable.

She bounces up and down a few times before thrusting her hands into the ruffles of her skirt. “It has pockets!” she exclaims, girlish excitement taking over her face. “I was so worried it wouldn’t fit because you never know with those rental companies, but I love it! Do you like it?” she asks, almost timid now.

“First of all, it wouldn’t matter if I liked it, because you love it. But yes, I more than like it. You look absolutely stunning and I can’t wait to walk into that ballroom with you on my arm,” I say as I take her hand and push her to do a little spin for me.

I pull her into the bathroom so we can look at ourselves in the mirror. Me in my tux and Bex looking like a damn goddess in her floor length dress.

“Perfect,” I whisper. “And I love this color on you.”

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