CHAPTER 2
The brass numbers on the door were slightly crooked, tarnished at the corners where years of salt air and smog had eaten away the cheap lacquer. Sixty-three. The red paint behind the numbers had chipped, exposing gray primer underneath like a half healed scab.
Jayla stood on the cracked concrete of the exterior walkway, her small camera bag slung diagonally across her chest like a shield she no longer intended to use.
The air smelled of damp asphalt, old exhaust from the nearby freeway interchange, and the faint, unmistakable tang of sea fog creeping over the low roof of the motel.
Beneath her boots, the ground felt unstable, as if the earth itself were tilting toward the dark wooden door.
She raised her hand. Her dark ink swept over her knuckles, tracing the delicate floral vines that climbed her wrists. Three taps. The sound of her ring against the door frame was sharp, bright, and terrifyingly final.
From inside, there was no immediate rush, no frantic scrambling. Only the slow, heavy thud of weight shifting across cheap carpet, followed by the slide of a deadbolt.
The door opened inward.
Drew filled the frame completely. In the dim, amber wash of the walkway lighting, his skin looked like polished dark mahogany, catching the soft gold glow along the broad curve of his collarbones and the deep, carved lines of his chest. He was bare topped, wearing only a pair of dark gray sweatpants that sat low on his hips, the soft cotton riding the hard crest of his pelvic bone.
His shoulders were wide enough to eclipse the entire interior of the room behind him, blocking out the light, the world, and every safe decision Jayla had ever made in her twenty eight years.
He looked down at her. His dark eyes were slow, unhurried, taking in the frayed end of her black braid, the silver glint of her septum ring, and the rapid, erratic rise and fall of her silk blouse. A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his lips, deepening the single dimple in his left cheek.
"You are two minutes early," he murmured. His voice was a dark, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards beneath her soles. "I like a woman who does not like to be kept waiting."
Jayla’s tongue felt heavy in her mouth. The breeze ruffled the loose wisps of hair near her temples, but inside her body, the air was entirely still, hot, and thick as oil.
"I do not waste time," she said, her voice dropping into a sultry, husky purr that surprised even her. "You should know that by now, Drew."
"Is that right?" He stepped back, swinging the door wide, opening the space between them. "Then step inside, photographer. Let us see if your courage holds up once the door is locked."
Jayla lifted her foot and crossed the threshold.
The sole of her boot met the low pile carpet with a muted crunch.
Drew reached behind her, his broad shoulder brushing against her upper arm, and pushed the heavy wooden panel shut.
The deadbolt clicked into place with a sharp, metallic snap that echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room.
The space was lit by a single bedside lamp shielded by a pleated parchment shade that cast long, golden shadows across the walls.
The bed was massive, a standard motel king covered in a crisp, white spread that looked freshly bleached.
The air carried the scent of sandalwood, clean iron, and the warm, musk underneath that belonged entirely to the man standing behind her.
Jayla turned around. Drew had not moved. He leaned his broad back against the closed door, his wide arms folded loosely across his bare chest, his dark eyes fixed on her with an unblinking, heavy focus.
"You look small in here," he noted softly, his gaze trailing down the swallow wing tattoo at her neckline down to the snug fit of her dark denim.
"In the daylight, at the coffee shop, you had a lot of loud talk.
You were feeling my leg under the table like a woman with a plan. You still got that same energy?"
Jayla let her camera bag slide off her shoulder, letting it fall onto the small wooden chair near the dresser with a thud. She stepped closer to him, her heels sinking into the carpet, until she was standing less than a foot away. The heat off his skin hit her like an open oven door.
"Why do you not come over here and find out?" she asked, tilting her chin up to meet his eyes.
Drew let out a low, rumbling laugh that started deep in his chest. "You are playful, are you not? Small, inked up, and full of fire. I like that."
"I am not small," she protested, a faint smile breaking through her nervous energy. "I am efficient."
"You are tiny, Jayla. And you are standing in a motel room with a man who could bend you over that dresser with one hand." He leaned forward slightly, bringing his broad face into the light. "Now tell me the truth. Did you think about me on the drive over?"
"I thought about what you said," she whispered, her gaze dropping to his thick, full lips. "About the three fingers. About what you expected me to do."
"And did you do it?"
Jayla felt a sudden, sharp rush of color flood her cheeks. "I played with myself in the Jeep while I was sitting in traffic on the freeway. I worked myself open just like you told me to."
Drew’s eyes darkened, the playful gleam sharpening into something intense and heavy. "Is that so? You sat in your little truck, thinking about my cock, and stuck your own fingers inside yourself?"
"Yes," she breathed, her mouth going dry. "I put three fingers inside. All the way."
Drew took a single step forward, closing the remaining distance until the front of his sweatpants brushed against the silk of her blouse.
"Good girl," he growled softly. "Because for what I am packing, three fingers is just the warm up.
You are going to need a whole lot more room than that before the night is done. "
***
The air in the room seemed to shrink, compressing until every breath Jayla took was filled with the warm, dark scent of Drew’s skin.
She reached up, her ink covered hands trembling slightly as her fingers found the back of his neck.
His skin was warm, smooth, and incredibly solid, the thick muscles of his neck corded under her touch.
She pulled him down.
Drew did not resist. He bent his large frame toward her, allowing her to pull his head down until her mouth found his. The kiss was not soft. It was a hungry, desperate collision of lips and teeth, a sudden release of the tension that had been building since eight o'clock that morning.
He tasted like rich espresso, sweet cream, and something darker that belonged only to him.
Jayla let out a low sigh against his mouth, her tongue sliding past his teeth to tangle with his.
Her silver septum ring pressed cool against the smooth plane of his cheek before the angle shifted and the heat of his mouth claimed her completely.
Drew’s hands came up, taking hold of her waist. His broad palms wrapped around her sides, his long fingers spanning nearly the entire width of her torso.
He pulled her flush against his body, lifting her slightly off her feet so her hips were pressed hard against the low ridge of his gray sweatpants.
"Mmm," Drew rumbled against her lips, pulling his head back just an inch, though his dark eyes stayed locked onto hers. His thumb stroked the curve of her hip through her denim. "Slow down, beautiful. This dick ain’t going nowhere. We have all night."
Jayla gasped for air, her lips parted and shining, her chest heaving against his chest. "I do not want to go slow. I have been going slow for three years, Drew. I want to be fucked right now."
Drew let out a low, filthy chuckle, his dimple cutting deep into his dark cheek as his heavy eyes traced every inch of her flushed face.
"Listen to you," he growled, his voice dropping into a thick, hypnotic purr that made her core throb. "Good little married girl running her mouth like a complete slut. You’re fucking starving for this dick, aren’t you?"
"You have no idea," she whimpered, her fingers digging desperately into the dense muscle of his bare back, tracing the deep, sweating valley of his spine and the massive slabs of shoulder that eclipsed the whole room.
"You feel like solid iron... Gray never felt like this. Fuck, Drew, you don't even feel real."
"I am as real as it gets, Jayla," he murmured, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety tone that made her thighs tremble. "Now, if you want this work, you have to follow directions. Kick those boots off and get over to the bed."
Jayla stepped back, her breath coming in short, uneven hitches. She reached down, unbuckling the small brass buckles on her leather boots, kicking them off one after the other until they thudded against the baseboard.
Drew walked over to the armchair near the corner of the bed and sat down.
He spread his long legs wide, resting his thick forearms on his knees, watching her with total, unhurried attention.
The gray sweatpants hung low on his waist, the fabric stretched tight across the thick, broad shape resting beneath the cloth.
"Take off the clothes," Drew commanded softly. "All of it. I want to see every inch of the canvas before I start painting."
Jayla’s fingers moved to the buttons of her cream silk blouse. She unbuttoned the top one, then the second, her eyes never leaving his face. "You like the tattoos?"
"I love the ink," he said, his dark eyes tracking the movements of her hands. "It looks wild on you. Like a map."
She slipped the silk shirt off her shoulders, letting it pool onto the carpet at her feet. Beneath it, her dark lace bra struggled to contain the full curve of her breasts. She reached behind her back, unhooked the clasp, and dropped the lace to the floor.