Chapter 12 Scarlett
SCARLETT
This is not the first time we’ve been in a hotel room alone together.
Obviously.
There was Aix-en-Provence, as well as countless other times since I’ve become a partner. We’ve visited many of our properties together, stopped in rooms, checked them out.
This is de rigueur for us, just a regular part of a day in business.
Tonight is business, true.
But it’s also personal, because this is the first time we’ve set foot in a hotel room after I pretended to be his wife. After I learned how thrilling games with Daniel are. And after he uttered those seductive words—we can fuck and not let it ruin us.
Words that send a shiver over my body as the echo of them resonates in my mind. I hear them over and over, along with other words like . . . indulge in you.
And . . . our friendship matters to me.
Those words ring in my head as we survey the room, my eyes drifting past the sunken living room, the French doors that lead to the bedroom, and a balcony that overlooks the shadow of the hill.
Beautiful.
“Is it too soon to say I’ve fallen in love with this property?” I ask, buoyed by the prospect of this purchase, if all the other properties hold up too.
“Love at first sight is perfectly acceptable with music and fine hotels,” he says with a wry grin.
I raise a finger. “And books. Don’t forget books.”
“I’d never forget books. Falling for a story needs no explanation.”
I smile, glad we can do this, grateful we can be friends, that we can banter this way.
Talk like partners.
That’s who we are.
But there are practical matters to attend to. I gesture to the French doors. “You can take the main bed, Daniel.”
He scoffs, furrowing his brow. “Woman, who do you take me for?”
“Is that such a terrible idea?”
He strides to the balcony, opens the sliding doors, then tosses me a don’t be crazy look. “I’m a gentleman. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You don’t have to,” I say as he turns and gazes out at the view of the inky night sky. Stars wink on and off as a midnight-blue blanket covers the earth.
He shakes his head, brooking no argument.
I swallow, trying to figure out if I’m daring enough to say the next words. “We can still share a bed,” I offer.
Spinning around, he laughs this time. “Darling, we aren’t sharing a bed if I’m not fucking you. I’m not strong enough to withstand that.” He returns to the room, shutting the sliding doors.
“Truth be told, I’m not sure I am either,” I admit with a shrug.
His eyes seem to flicker with happiness. Like he’s grateful that the situation is hard for me too.
Believe you me, handsome, it so is.
He points to the couch. “But I am strong enough to withstand you from a sofa bed. And that’s where I’ll sleep.”
“At least let me get you a good pillow.”
He sets a hand on his heart. “A pillow. Hold me back. Perhaps some tea too? Maybe a biscuit?”
I roll my eyes, stride past the French doors, and grab a soft white pillow from the massive pile on the king-size bed. Briefly, my eyes linger on the mattress, images of us tangled up in the sheets taunting me.
Daniel’s strong back and shoulders, those sinewy muscles . . . I imagine his toned arms pinning me down, holding me in place. His hands traveling everywhere over me, gripping me, clasping me, pushing me to my limit.
And me, wanting all he gives. All he does.
Every rough, dirty deed.
Then, as I have before, I dismiss those tantalizing pictures, swiping them from my mind as I return to the living room.
“No tea tonight. But you know what the travel sites say—a good pillow is the measure of a great hotel,” I say as I hand it to him.
He takes it. “I’ll report back on its measurement at dawn.”
I return to the bedroom, making my way to the en suite bathroom. In there, I freshen up, brush my teeth, wash my face, and remove my wig. I set it down carefully in the suitcase next to a platinum-blonde one, and a black one too.
Maybe the blonde for tomorrow? Maybe in this wig I’ll be Mrs. Rousseau.
Or Mrs. Nicks.
I smile privately at the possibilities as I make sure the wigs are tucked safely away.
For now, I’m not Mrs. Dickens.
I’m Scarlett Slade, no artifice and not a touch of makeup. The remnants of my perfume have faded away.
I’m only me.
That raises the question. What would Scarlett Slade do?
I still don’t know the answer.
I know what Mrs. Dickens would do. She’d put on a jet-black negligee, head to the door, and strike a pose.
Invite him in.
A pang of longing tugs at my chest. His offer is so deliciously enticing. But I don’t know if I can take it.
I don’t know how I’d survive it.
Riffling through my things, my fingers stop on a soft, silky teddy. A cranberry-red one. The shade of desire.
I murmur as I stroke it, savoring the lush feel of the material. I bet he’d love to touch me in this piece of lingerie. Bet he’d love to run his fingers over it, under it, onto me.
I shiver, sensations rushing through me.
I want to put it on, but wearing it is far too risqué. Wearing it would be playing with fire.
Not so much for him, but for me.
I won’t be able to resist him if I wear this, and I need to know I can handle the pain and the pleasure.
The possibility of this tryst going terribly wrong.
But maybe it’ll only go right.
I reach for my faded Brown University T-shirt from my alma mater, where I earned my bachelor’s degree in economics. I tug it on, then pull on a pair of sleep shorts and head to the living room to say good night to Daniel.
He’s availed himself of the other bathroom, and has already freshened up, wearing those lounge pants and nothing else.
His chest is bare and worthy of a calendar.
All those muscles, all that smooth skin, with just the perfect smattering of chest hair.
I draw in a sharp breath. My body tingles, then heats as we share a dirty glance.
His eyes roam up and down my frame. “Didn’t work.”
My brow knits. “What do you mean?”
He flicks his fingers in my direction. “I still find you as alluring as ever, even in that gray T-shirt. So your attempt to wear something less sexy didn’t work at all.
You still look seductive, if not more so, when you look like yourself.
Because that’s the thing, Scarlett. I’m insanely aroused by you.
” He sighs like he’s resigned to the score.
“And on that note, I better get to bed.”
He sets to work unfolding the couch, putting a sheet over the mattress, and then flopping down on it as I retreat to the bedroom.
“Good night, Daniel,” I call out softly.
“Good night, Scarlett.”
I wish I knew for certain that I could survive whatever comes my way.
Fuck this bed.
Fuck this room.
Fuck this hotel.
An hour later, I’m staring at the ceiling, wide awake and miserable.
It’s midnight.
This king-size bed is so spacious. I flip onto my stomach. I flip back. I turn onto my side. I reach for my sleep mask. I shove it on with a grumble.
My world is dark. Maybe that’ll blot out these naughty thoughts frolicking through my brain.
But nope. I can’t even count sheep. Because all I can see are cocks. And I’m pretty sure counting cocks won’t help my cause at all. Instead, I count truths.
I want the truth.
Daniel Stewart didn’t give me a single line. He didn’t offer something he couldn’t deliver. He only offered himself for a limited time.
He promised nothing more, just that we’d return to the way we were. He’s capable of it, I’m sure.
Am I?
There’s only one way to find out.
That’s the decision I’m making right now. I want to find out. I trust him. But I also trust myself. I trust that we can return to who we are.
Now, though, we can be these other people.
We can pretend to be newlyweds in a hotel room, holed up together, making love.
If I’d just married him, I’d damn well be touching him already.
My temporary husband.
My make-believe mister.
I fling off the covers, swing my legs out of bed, and pad across the floor. He’s on the sofa, stretched out on his back, one hand flung over his eyes. His chest rises and falls.
He’s sound asleep.
My shoulders sag.
I’m turning to retreat to the bedroom when his voice calls out, all rough and sexy, “Come here.”
Shivers race across my entire body. They fill my cells. Need squeezes my chest, and I answer the aching pull of desire. I close the distance, joining him on the pullout couch, getting on top of him.
I straddle Daniel. “You’re hard,” I whisper like it’s a delicious secret.
One corner of his lips curves into a grin. “Does that surprise you?”
I shake my head as I set my hands on his shoulders, curling them over the strong muscles. “No. I suppose it delights me.”
He lifts a hand, slides it around the back of my head, threads his fingers through my hair, then whispers, “Then why don’t you delight in my cock, Scarlett?”
Heat blazes through my body. My hips move by instinct as I rock against him, grinding and pressing against that hard ridge, the tantalizing outline my eyes enjoyed a few nights ago in the hallway after the chandelier crashed.
The chandelier knew.
The chandelier was a sign.
Thrusting us together.
Wetness pools inside me as pleasure winds higher in my body. I rock as he grips me tighter, and I give in to the temporary us.
But there are things that need to be said.
Rules that need to be erected.
Boundaries that must be set.
So I stop, going still. “I have a proposal,” I say, all breathy.
He growls, tightening his grip on my head. “Let’s hear it.”
I draw a fortifying breath, then lay it out. “We do this. We do this for the length of the trip. We get this out of our systems. We role-play the whole time, and we pretend.”
His eyes blaze with desire. “Tonight do you want to be Mrs. Rousseau, my siren of a French wife, who slipped into the bed after dark, since she wants to be fucked hard and ruthlessly?”
I grin wickedly, savoring our naughty games, our tawdry make-believe.
“But the thing is, Mrs. Rousseau loves being pushed, getting worked up, being turned on all day long.” I drag a hand down his chest. “When I’m Mrs. Rousseau, I want to spend the day wandering around town, you whispering filthy words in my ear, telling me all the things we’re going to do when we return to the room at night.
I want to be driven mad with lust by Mr. Rousseau.
” My whisper is soft and sensual as his eyes glimmer as I promise these dirty deeds.
“And then when we return to our room tomorrow night, you can ravage me. You can ruin me in bed.” I nibble on the corner of my lips, voicing my final, tantalizing wish. “You can do anything to me.”
A full-body shudder is his answer, then a low, deep rumble that seems to take over his entire being. “What are you proposing tonight, then?”
My hands travel down his body, trailing over his pecs, then to his abs, tracing the grooves of them, the ridges, my nails brushing against his hot skin. When I reach the waistband of his pants, I slide off him and settle between his legs.
I look up, meeting his eyes. I lick my lips. My intentions are clear. But words help, so I finish with, “Tonight, I’m going to suck my husband’s cock.”
The only sound that comes from him is a command. “Suck me hard and deep, darling. Like you love to do.”
Oh, yes. I’m sure I’ll love every single second.