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Walking down the long-ass hall of this too-large hotel suite, carrying Mickie in my arms while kissing her, desperate for more, made me think what a stupid idea it was to show off with a room like this. I’d give anything to be in a roadside motel just to have made it to the damn bed by now.
Oh, fuck it, I thought, setting Mickie’s feet on the ground, pressing her perfect body back against the wall of the never-ending luxurious hallway.
The noises this woman made were half the reason I hadn’t broken our kiss since that unexpected moment happened two miles back in the goddamn living room. And now? Her soft whimpers, as if I were already thrusting myself into her, were making me come undone, and I stopped mid-stride in the hallway to fuck her right here and now.
Her kiss tasted like honey and peppermint, and do not ask me how that combo worked out, but it was the most delicious flavor I’d ever tasted. I pulled her hands from where they clenched into my hair, spurring me on for more, and pressed them up into the wall above her head.
“Ouch! John, wait,” she said, her wiggling free. “Stop, wait.” Her words sobered my horny ass right up, ending my advances then and there.
“Are you okay?” I questioned, still in a daze, confused, and begging my mind to snap into the present moment. “Did I hurt you?”
I swear if this fucking estate-sized room were on fire, we’d probably burn because of how badly I wanted this woman.
“I’ve never been better, but—” She looked down where she held one hand in the other, and my eyes widened at the sight of blood.
“Oh, my God. How did the wall cut you?” I said, pulling her delicate hand into mine. I studied the gash in disbelief. I swear to God, if she needed stitches, I would sue this hotel for cock-blocking me tonight.
Not about you, John, I mentally scolded myself.
“Let’s find the bathroom, and let me get you cleaned up,” I said, my dick shriveling in shame, knowing that my impulse to fuck right here had thrown me completely off my game.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Mickie asked while my mind struggled to focus on her current inconvenience and not mine.
“Great fucking question,” I answered, keeping her injured hand in mine while we turned down a hallway that led to another suite of rooms with more hallways attached to it, all leading in different directions. “I swear it feels like we’re in an escape room horror show right now,” I said, choosing the hall to our left because it seemed like the way to go.
“What the hell is this place?” she questioned as we walked into a room with a pool-like tub with pillars that were probably taken from what was left of the Colosseum in Rome.
“Check this shit out,” I said, wholly distracted after opening the door to find a breathtaking shower that was surrounded by glass with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Um, I think I need stitches,” she said with a laugh as I stepped into the shower. I felt my stomach drop as I looked down at the city streets, buzzing with lights of cars in traffic at what felt like five thousand feet below.
“You need to see this, Mick,” I said, waving her over.
“You need to see this,” Mickie answered while my brain maintained the age of a six-year-old boy in a dinosaur museum. “John!” she urged with a humored laugh.
“Oh, my God. Yes, I’m sorry. Yes, your hand,” I answered, snapping back to the reality of why we were in Cleopatra’s bathroom in the first place. “What the hell caused this? Was there a fucking knife in the wall?” I questioned, seeing the large gash that probably wouldn’t stop bleeding unless we had some stitches to close the wound.
“I think it was the glass-framed picture. My hand caught the edge,” she answered.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” I said, grabbing a washcloth and wrapping it around her hand. “The wound is deep enough that it’s going to need at least one stitch to stop the bleeding.”
“How the fuck did we manage this?” she chuckled.
I kissed her forehead. “Sounds like a sick joke, doesn’t it?”
“What? Two doctors trying to screw in the Taj Mahal of hotel rooms, and one doctor needs stitches as a result?”
I rolled my eyes and pulled her into my arms. “The worst part is that we both can stitch people up, yet I’m getting ready to call an Uber to haul our asses down to the local emergency room.”
“Well, if they could get us a sewing kit, then?—”
“Not a chance,” I said, guiding her out of the bathroom and back through a large sitting room. “As badly as I want you in my arms right now, proving my love to you, there’s no way in hell we’re going to act like we’re on some reality television survivor show. We’ll get you stitched up, and then,” I said, eying the open space of the hotel room that I officially regretted booking, “I’ll be rebooking another hotel room somewhere else.”
She laughed, “I think it’s a beautiful room, and I would love to see how comfy the beds are since this place is fit for a king.”
I picked up my phone and opened the Uber app. “That’s the thing,” I said. “I intentionally booked this hotel and room because I was going for that.”
“To be treated like the king you are?” She teased, her eyebrow arching in a way that made me second-guess ditching the sewing-kit idea.
