Page 56 of Married to Number 22
And Smythe stocks and Grams’s interference or not, Luna is mine.
So the ring is going to reflect that.
“If it’s not your style,” I murmur, lightly running my finger over the smooth metal band, “the jeweler said we could exchange it for something else.”
“It’s beautiful,” she says, holding tight to my hand. “More than I could have ever imagined.”
I kiss her nose. “Good.”
She exhales, nuzzles against my throat again, body relaxing against mine. “Now what?”
“Room service,” I say. “As soon as I summon the energy to pick up the phone. Food and more champagne and then”—I nip at her ear—“more eating you out.”
She shivers, arching against me. “I like this plan.”
“Mmm,” I say, the curves of her awakening my still hard dick. God, I feel eighteen again, like I can go all night without a break, can fuck her over and over again. “Or,” I murmur, “we could delay the room service and champagne and I can go straight back to licking that delicious pussy of yours.”
Another shiver.
And, grinning wolfishly, I realize she’s given her answer.
“I’ll take care of the condom.” A kiss to the spot behind her ear. “You just lay there and think of all the ways I’m going to fuck you.”
“Aiden.”
I steal her lips in a drugging kiss then force myself up and out of bed, going into the bathroom and disposing of the condom. I grab the open bottle of champagne—because I have ideas for that too, namely lick it off her naked body.
I set it on the nightstand, crawl back into bed beside her, pausing to undo her shoes and slide them free before kissing my way up her legs.
I’m just reaching for the bottle again when there’s a knock at the door.
“Ignore it,” she murmurs when I freeze with my mouth about an inch from that plump wet pussy.
Nodding, I make that inch disappear, sliding my tongue through her.
She moans, hips bucking, head dropping back to the pillows.
And there’s another fucking knock.
Fuck.
I push it out of my mind. They have the wrong door, the wrong floor, the wrong fuckingroom.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Luna jerks, head flying up. “Wh?—?”
“Goddamn it.” I launch myself out of bed, yank the blankets up and over her, then stomp away from the bed, temper ratcheting higher and higher with every step.
Mostly because the knocking keeps coming as I snag a towel, wrap it around my waist.
And doesn’t stop as I reach for the handle.
Nor when I growl as I whip open the door…
To find Smitty standing in the hall.
“Happy Belated Birthday motherfucker!” he shouts.
