15. Neomi
I wake with the sun, drifting slowly up through warmth and the press of someone breathing behind me. For a moment, I’m disoriented, so I track my surroundings. There are hotel sheets beneath my cheek, a broad chest at my back, and a heavy arm curved around my waist.
It’s been three years since I’ve shared a bed with a man for sleep and not sex.
My eyes open fully and the room is dim, dawn pushing a muted amber glow through the curtains. Lars is still asleep, his hand spread across my stomach. His body is pressed along the length of mine and God—he feels good. Too good. Anchoring in a way I don’t want to let myself get used to.
I lie there and hints of last night echo through my mind. My brain plays tricks on me, telling me that I probably just overreacted. That it was silly for me to call Lars. Then my stomach tightens at the fear I felt. A slow burn creeps into my chest because even though I didn’t ask, he came to me.
Fuck. I’ve been just fine for years now with no one. But there’s something about Lars that I can’t get enough of. Something in him that makes me feel safe. When he leaves, I want more of him.
What is he doing to me?
I shift, trying to create space, and the arm around my waist tightens. He isn’t awake, but his body responds like it’s trained to register my movement. His palm slides lower across my hip, warm and heavy and proprietary in a way that would irritate me if it didn’t feel so damn good.
I try to sit up. His grip firms.
“No,” he mutters into my hair, voice rough with sleep.
A shiver traces my spine, and I curse myself for it. “I need water,” I whisper.
His arm loosens, and I slip out of bed before my body protests leaving his warmth.
The floor is cool under my feet, grounding me.
I grab a bottle of water from the minibar and take a long drink.
When I turn around, he’s awake. Propped on one elbow, messy hair, eyes half-lidded, sprawled under my sheets.
“Morning,” I say softly.
His voice is gravel when he answers. “Come back to bed.”
The sound of it goes straight to my clit.
I shake my head. “If I get back in that bed, I’m afraid I’ll have to fuck you, and you said no fucking until we do that whole dinner thing.”
A slow, wicked curve pulls at his mouth. “You’re right. You should be proud of me, last night I was a good boy.” His eyes dart to my nightgown. “Though that little black number made it hard.”
Because I’m no better than a teenager, I point at the sheet where the outline of his cock presses against the cotton. “Is it still hard?”
He presses a hand on his length through the sheet. “Shut up. I woke up next to a beautiful woman. Take it as a compliment.”
I cross the room, back to the bed. Against my better judgement, I set my water on the nightstand and then crawl back onto the mattress and curl into his side. As I settle against him, a heavy breath leaves his chest, and he places a soft kiss on my hair.
His hand drops to my back. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just annoyed that it happened.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry. I won’t let that happen again,” he says, calm and absolute.
I press up on my elbow, a hand on his chest. “While I appreciate it, you can’t promise things like that. There will always be twisted people out there.”
His eyes move to mine, and there’s something different there. Something almost comforting.
“I can promise that. No one will get close to you like that again.”
My eyes search his, and I know there’s no lie in his words. Then I remember he told me he works in security. He’s probably used to situations like this; he’s used to assuring someone’s safety.
“Okay.”
I place a kiss on his chest. I want to kiss every inch of him. He needs to leave, or I’m going to lose control.
“I need to start getting ready for the day.”
He nods, pulls my jaw to his lips, placing a kiss on the corner of my mouth. Then he stands, and I force myself to avoid openly appreciating the view. He looks entirely too good in my space—tall, with that firm ass that I know feels so good in my hands and all that smooth skin.
He pulls on his shirt. “Text me later. I’ll tell you when to be ready.”
“For the non-date?” I smirk.
“For our evening of spending time together,” he confirms, buttoning slowly.
I sit up. “You’re going to make me suffer all evening, aren’t you?”
He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my chin to hold his gaze. “Just trying to even the score, because I’ve been suffering since the first time I saw you, Bella.”
Heat coils low in my stomach as he brushes a kiss onto my cheek. “I’ll see you tonight.”
After a few errands and a late lunch, I stretch out for a nap. I’m almost asleep when a knock pulls me back to the surface. I scrub a hand over my face, push the covers back, pull on a robe and pad to the door. I know my hair is a mess. My thoughts aren’t much better.
A hotel attendant waits outside with a silver delivery cart polished to a mirror shine. On it sits a garment bag, a sleek black box, and a small velvet pouch.
“For Ms. Valentine,” he says, offering the blankly pleasant smile luxury hotels train into their staff.
“I didn’t order anything,” I reply, even as my heart skips a beat, because I have a suspicion who did.
“Delivery was requested immediately,” he confirms.
I go to my purse and retrieve a bill from my wallet, tip him, and wheel the cart inside. The door shuts and excitement fills me. I reach for the garment bag first, brushing the zipper as I steady myself before pulling it open.
The dress inside steals my breath.
Red silk—rich and fluid, catches the light. The dipping halter neckline is elegant but dangerous, and the slit is high enough to make a statement. This isn’t subtle. This is a dress made to be admired—on a hanger or on a woman.
I run my fingers over the fabric, appreciating the weight and craftsmanship. This isn’t a first-date dress. This is a masterpiece. I check the tag and it’s exactly my size. Of course, it is.
I lay the dress aside and open the box. Inside are black heels with red soles, tall, and glossy. I shake my head, a smile tugging at my mouth.
“Hope I don’t have to walk much this evening.”
The velvet pouch comes last. Inside rests a delicate gold chain with a tiny bell pendant, luminous against the dark lining. It's impossible to miss the intention behind it.
Bella.
I set the necklace down carefully and only then notice the envelope lying on the cart. Thick black cardstock. Clean, precise strokes form my name.
Inside is a card.
Be ready at 5.
Wear your hair up.
— Lars
I sit on the edge of the bed, the card resting against my thigh, butterflies filling my stomach.
I’m not easily rattled; men try and fail to impress me in cities across the country.
But this is something different. He’s pursuing me, he’s ravaged me, restrained himself, and it’s borderline insane the effect he has over me when I’ve only known him for such a short time.
I exhale slowly, stand, and carefully lay everything out on the bed—the dress, the heels, the necklace, the card. I hang the robe up in the wardrobe and walk to the bathroom.
“Get it together, Valentine,” I mutter, even as a smile betrays me.