4. George
Chapter 4
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 screamed bad 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.
No rush. No pressure. Just heat.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t rush to strip off his shirt like I expected.
No, he watches me like he has all night and could spend it looking at me until I melt into a puddle at his feet.
His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate, as if he’s memorizing every inch. Making sure I don’t change my mind.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the hem of my tank top, needing to do something, anything , to break this tension. I don’t want to show hesitation or vulnerability. Don’t want him to suspect that I’ve never done this before.
But I need something—this, him —to be on my terms.
I pull my tank top over my head and kick off my boots.
His jaw tightens, fists clenching, his gaze roaming over my body in my jeans and bra. I don’t do lacy and feminine—he’ll just have to deal with my practical underwear.
But the flare of heat in his eyes leaves me in no doubt that he likes what he sees.
But he's still—too still.
I reach for my jeans, fumbling the button.
“Slow down.” His voice is lower now, rougher. “What’s the rush?”
The question catches me off guard. “I'm not?—”
“You don't have to prove anything to me,” he murmurs. “I already like what I see.”
It would be easier if he were another cocky player who wanted to get laid and move on. If he didn't read me so well.
But the way he looks at me—patient, knowing, almost tender—makes me want things I shouldn't. Things I’ve repressed to keep everyone else comfortable. The messy, chaotic me I try to hide.
His eyes spark with something, as if he sees right through my practiced confidence to the nervousness underneath.
But instead of calling me out, he smiles, slow and dangerous. “Take your time. We've got all night to learn about each other.”
The gentleness in his voice makes this harder.
I don't want gentle.
I want fast and hot.
I don’t want this to mean anything.
I don’t want him to mean anything.
I should walk away right now before he figures out my casual demeanor is all a pretense. “We agreed on no complications.” My voice shakes. “No questions.”
He shrugs as he closes the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps. “That was before you got me curious. Why are you trying so hard to run from who you are?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Would it kill him to stop being so perceptive?
My attempt at a carefree laugh sounds more like a constipated goose. “I don't know what you mean. No secrets here. Honestly, my biggest secret is that I once got stuck in a sweatshirt and had to be cut out with scissors.”
He huffs a laugh as he stalks toward me. I back up until I hit the wall. He braces one hand beside my head, caging me in. My knees buckle, causing me to wobble. His other hand settles on my hip, steadying me. The heat of his body is everywhere, making it hard to think.
Adrenaline surges through me, making my hands tremble and my breathing choppy. I’m caught between the instinct to run and the reckless, aching need to melt into his touch.
Capturing my wrists in one big hand, he holds them firmly but gently. “You use humor like a shield, but your body gives you away. Why are your hands shaking?”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Low blood sugar? Existential dread? The crushing weight of societal expectations? Take your pick.”
His lips twitch. “Okay, have it your way. But I promise you’ll be shaking everywhere by the time I’m done with you.”
Holy crap. My core throbs at his words. Something tells me this man doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.
I swallow hard and close my eyes. I hope enthusiasm compensates for inexperience. How hard can it be? No pun intended. It’s like sealing a gasket. Right? No gaps, just a perfect fit. Which is exactly what I want: one perfect night with a stranger when I can be myself.
His voice drops lower, rougher. “Open your eyes, sweetheart.”
I do. I wish I hadn't.
I hate how my chest tightens. How my pulse kicks faster. How his fingers trail over my hip. Slow. Teasing. Creating sensual magic.
My hands slide to his upper arms as he releases them, molding around the thick swell of muscle through his shirt. I know he’s going to kiss me, that he wants me. And God help me, I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
I suck in a breath, bracing for his delicious onslaught. Ready to give him everything.
But he doesn’t take. He gives.
His lips brush my neck, and his hands steady me as I sway. He takes his time, kissing down my throat and across my collarbone.
My breath hitches as his fingertip glides along my cheek, featherlight, as if I’m something fragile—a wild creature that might flee at the first hint of urgency. With deliberate care, he strokes my chin, tilting my face upward, guiding me into an unspoken surrender.
When his mouth finally finds mine, the kiss is deep, consuming, effortless.
His lips mold to mine, coaxing until I part my lips with a gasp of pleasure. The tip of his tongue strokes the edge of my teeth, ventures farther, brushes inside in a burning, delicate exploration.
I melt.
I hate how fast I melt.
The kiss makes me light-headed, and I wrap my arms around his neck in a desperate bid for balance. He takes my weight, pinning me securely between his large body and the unyielding wall at my back.
I twist and pull at him until he makes a soothing noise and runs his hands down my sides. The slow caress only sharpens my need, making me arch against him in a blind, instinctive search. His hips settle against me, pressing the swollen ridge of his cock into the cradle of my hips. He fits perfectly between my thighs, his hardness pressed into my softness, his mouth claiming mine with wicked skill, his arms a firm cage around me. Strong. Unyielding.
Safe.
The word pops into my head unexpectedly, catching me off guard.
How is that possible? How can a man I barely know, one whose touch sets my body ablaze, also make me feel like I could sink into him and never fall?
I should question it. I should pull away, clear my head, and regain control.
But when his grip tightens, grounding me in his heat and strength, I don’t want to let go. I want to hold him forever. This dark stranger whose name I don’t even know.
Sliding my hands into his thick, dark hair, I curve my fingers around his scalp. A harsh breath escapes him as his lips leave mine and slide along my throat. His touch is deliberate and intuitive as if he knows exactly how to make me respond, hinting at the hunger he’s keeping tightly shackled.
But when I push for more, when I reach for his belt—he stops me.
“Hey.” It’s not a warning or rejection. “Tell me this is just physical, a one-night stand, and I'll believe you.”
He looks as surprised by his words as I am, as if he didn’t expect this attraction to dig so deep and fast. But it’s there, tangible and inevitable.
But he’s right—it’s not just physical. It should be one night of escape, nothing more. That’s what I told myself when I followed him up here and kissed him back like I needed him to breathe.
But now, with his gaze searching mine, I feel exposed. Like he already knows the truth I’m too afraid to admit.
I swallow hard, my fingers curling against his belt, uncertain.
His voice is quieter this time, rougher. “Because if it's more… if you need more… I need to hear you say it.”
My chest tightens. My lips part.
I don’t know what terrifies me more—that I don’t want this to be just physical…
Or that he already knows.
I make a frustrated noise, but his hands are already on me again. His lips brush my temple so gently that it makes my chest ache. “Let me take care of you.”
“I don't need?—”
He cuts me off. “You're safe with me.”
There’s that word again.
A word that threads through the heat, the need, and the undeniable pull between us. As if he knows exactly what I crave, what I don’t even know how to ask for.
Moving his hands to my shoulders, he kneads the tense muscles. His mouth trails to my ear, his voice low and steady. “You may not need it, but I want to give it to you anyway. Let me show you.”
Something in me unravels. The walls I’ve held up so tightly crack a little.
I bite my lip, body arching, desperate. He chuckles against my skin, but it’s not cruel. It’s pure, dark satisfaction.
Slow. Torturous. Focused.
“That’s better,” he murmurs. “Now, let’s take our time.”
And then?
I stop thinking.