Page 3 of Close Quarter
Of course he would recognize the name. It had been in every paper.
WORLD-RENOWNED CELLIST SAMANTHA MATHERTON DIES.
ONLY SON RHYS INHERITS MILLIONS.
The manager tucked the business card into his shirt pocket. "We'll send you a bill, Mr. Matherton. Once we add up the expenses."
"Thanks." He lingered only until the manager turned his back. Then he fled the lounge. The stares had become too much. And if he left now, he might have a chance to catch up with that guy.
Short, loose black curls, like something out of ancient art. That tanned face needed to be carved into stone. Or sculpted in clay. Or traced with fingers and lips...
Not a chance in the world, not after dumping a tray of drinks on him. But the least he could do was try to set things right.
Rhys saw his target not too far down the hall.
He caught up with the man and grabbed the guy's arm. "Wait. Let me--"
The dark-haired man whirled about, pushed Rhys into a short hallway, and rammed him against the wall. Hard. "I said I don't need your money."
A rich, deep voice and eyes the color of honey. An accent Rhys could not place. The man had wrapped his fingers around Rhys's throat. His other hand pinned Rhys against the wall. Strong.
Fast.
A tick of apprehension traced down Rhys's spine. "How about an apology?" His voice was steadier than he felt.
Maybe it was the alcohol clinging to the man's hair and clothes. More likely it was the hot press of his body, but Rhys could barely draw a breath. Fear. Desire. God, he was hard already.
"I don't need your apology either."
That dismissive scorn unlocked anger in Rhys. He was so tired of people looking at him like he was nothing more than a simpering piece of shit. He pushed the man back but only managed inches of distance. "I'm trying to be nice here!
What do you want? Should I get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness? Lick the drinks off your body?"
Oh fucking brilliant. What a thing to say.
The man chuckled. That, too, was rich and dark. "Would you like that?" The man shifted his body and pressed his thigh into Rhys's crotch, right against his very hard cock. Pinpricks of heat ran up Rhys's spine, spread around his head.
Rhys let out a soft moan.Damn it.
"Ah, so you would." Mockery in the man's words. Lust too. One hand kept Rhys pinned, but the other released Rhys's throat. With those fingers, the man brushed Rhys's lips.
Pineapple. Cherry. Heady flavors. Rhys couldn't help it. He ran his tongue over the digit and then sucked it into his mouth. The man obliged him, feeding him one finger after another to clean.
Damn, this guy tasted good. It couldn't just be the drinks.What the hell?
When there were no more fingers, the man leaned in even closer. "That was very well done."
Hot breath caressed Rhys's cheek. "Let's see what you can do with something else."
He kissed Rhys. No. Kissing would have been gentle. This man devoured Rhys's mouth.
Rhys answered back just as hard. If he was going to be felt up by a hot-ass stranger in a hallway, it damn well would be on his terms too.
Rhys tangled his hands in the dark, sticky-wet curls of the man's hair and sucked at his tongue. Rhys pushed his cock into the hard muscles of the man's thigh and felt the answer against his leg.
God, it had been a long time since anyone had kissed him this way. Whatever had been on that tray smelled wicked on this guy. Sweet, then dark.
Night descending on the jungle. Earth layered against the smell of mango and pineapple.
