Page 7 of Let it Breathe
3
Donovan
As I rodeup in the elevator alone, my chest tensed. I flexed and relaxed my fingers. Who the hell was she to tell me who I could and couldn't sleep with? I threw down the challenge, but she'd never take me up on it. I didn't even have the pleasure of seeing the shocked expression on her face when she read my note.
I wouldn't mind looking at her again. She had the prettiest olive skin. His body was on point, too. Her white button-down shirt and black skirt screamed corporate, but it had a naughty edge to it. I saw it in her eyes; she had a dirty mind. Why else would she be so concerned with how I got off.
Smartass.
Her smart-ass remarks came out of that beautiful mouth. My note guaranteed I'd never see her again.
Dumbass.
I entered my room and flipped on the lights. The maids had turned down the bed and closed the curtains. I swept them back. The city lights reflecting off San Diego Harbor reminded me of my place up in San Francisco.
I retrieved a tiny bottle of scotch from the mini fridge and took a sip. The room had a bed and a table and chair with a flat screen on the wall. Nothing fancy since my reservation was last minute. I wasn't the type of guy who had to stay in a suite. I grew up with four brothers in one room, so anytime I had my own bed was a luxury.
A luxury better shared with a female bouncing on my dick.
I grunted and lifted the bottle to my lips. I stopped when I heard a knock on the door.
I grinned, coughed, and straightened my face as I approached the door.
"Who is it?" I asked.
Silence answered me.
I pulled the door open and couldn't get the grin off my face. People wonder why professional athletes were so cocky. A plumber couldn't pull off what I just accomplished tonight.
"I'm sorry, what was your name again?"
She narrowed her eyes, and I sensed it took considerable effort for her to stay.
I grinned again and took another sip. I studied her face. She was a classic beauty; big brown eyes and wavy dark brown hair that flowed over her shoulders. I would guess she was Italian, but her accent was American. She bit her lip and crossed her arms over her chest. I laughed.
"Am I amusing you?" she asked.
"No." I shook my head. "Just laughing at the irony of the situation."
"Can you just"—she held a hand up—"not talk?"
"What would you like me to do with my mouth?"
Lust flashed in her eyes. She covered it by walking in, grabbing the bottle in my hand, and downing it. I saw it, though. She liked the dirty talk.
She stepped to the window, and I walked up behind her. I stood a few inches away, but she could feel my heat, and I sensed her shiver.
"You ready?" I asked.
"Ready for what?"
She turned her head toward me.
"Ready for me to fuck that ten punch chip off your shoulder?"
She spun on her heels and stared into my eyes. Her chest rose and fell, her breath shallow and sexy. I peeked at the curve of her breast and wanted to taste it but stopped myself. She wanted me to make the first move, but I wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
There we stood, toe to toe. I took in the subtleties of her face. The curve of her cheek, the twitch in her lip when she tried to remain neutral.
