Page 15 of Her Dirty Defender

George

We climb the stairs to his room, each tread bringing us closer to what we both want. His overwhelming presence fills the stairwell, making it hard to breathe.

The man could make a fortune bottling his pheromones and selling them as a controlled substance. One sniff and women would be whipping off their panties and making terrible decisions in record time.

Like, say, following a stranger upstairs for a night of no-names, no-strings, no-regrets sex.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye and find him watching me, his expression knowing.

“I thought you’d be all grabby hands,” I say as we reach the landing and walk down the short hallway. “Are you always this… unhurried?”

His lips quirk. “Only when something's worth waiting for.” The way he says it, as if he knows exactly how this night will play out, sends blood rushing to my core.

He saunters along the hallway, his pace unhurried, like he’s enjoying drawing this out.

I should be second-guessing. I should be questioning my good sense.

Instead, I’m wondering how fast he can get me against that wall.

He pulls out the key as we reach his door—an old-fashioned brass key that looks like it belongs to a secret garden or a vintage treasure chest. The kind of key that promises adventure—a tangible reminder that tonight is real, not just a daydream I've conjured to escape my suffocating reality.

He unlocks it with a quiet click. Then he steps back, gesturing for me to enter first.

I hesitate. Not because I want to back out, but because something about the way he looks at me makes my pulse pound so damn hard I can barely hear.

This is just sex. One night. Nothing more.

I take a deep breath and step inside.

I can handle this.

The door shuts behind us with a quiet snick, sealing us into a room that suddenly feels too small.

His room at The Honey Pot is a hell of a lot nicer than I expected.

The space is warm, inviting, and way too easy to picture myself staying in past sunrise.

The king-sized bed—not some dinky queen, but an actual king—sits against a wall paneled with rich, honey-toned wood that reminds me of a cozy cabin rather than a room above a bar. The thick comforter is a deep, stormy gray, plush and inviting, and the pillows look entirely too soft for a place that serves whiskey by the jug downstairs.

A worn leather armchair sits by the window with a neatly folded blanket draped over the back, the kind you’d find in a ranch house not a roadside inn. On the opposite side, a dark wood dresser holds a ceramic lamp that emits a soft amber glow, a glass of water, and a hardcover book resting face down. It’s not a prop. The cracked spine reveals it’s been read many times.

But besides the book, there’s no clutter. He could walk out at any moment and leave no trace behind.

The air smells like cedar, warm linen, and a faint trace of the same soap clinging to his skin. The whole room radiates comfort, as if the owners aren’t simply running a business but genuinely give a damn about their guests.

The wooden floors don’t creak under my boots, the heavy curtains are the kind that block out sunlight, and I swear the air conditioning hums at just the right soothing pitch.

This is dangerous.

It’s too comfortable.

I should’ve walked into a scratchy motel room with fluorescent lighting and a questionable stain in the corner. Something that screamedbad decisions ahead.

Instead, I’ve stepped into a space that feels like a retreat, a temptation, a place built for sinking into pleasure and staying too damn long.

And all I can focus on is him.

He leans against the closed door, arms crossed, watching me with a calm, controlled intensity that makes my pulse skitter. The soft glow of the lamp casts shadows over his sharp jawline. His t-shirt clings to broad shoulders and a body built for wrecking good intentions. He stands there, watching me, letting me decide how this night plays out.

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