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The elevator doors sprung open, and I took the cart straight to the penthouse suite. I sent Hannah a text, tipped the bellman, and sent the concierge an email.
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SUBJECT: HAYLEY STATHAM+ Request
Could you please make sure that whenever she leaves the party upstairs, that she leaves alone?
(If you’re unsure of what she looks like, she's the most attractive woman at the party—the blonde in the purple dress)
Also, I’m expecting a guest tonight. Let her up when she arrives. No need to call and verify anything.
—Corey W.
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HIS REPLY WAS IMMEDIATE.
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SUBJECT: RE: HAYLEYStatham + Request
As you wish, Mr. Walters.
—Concierge, The Roosevelt Hotel
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TAKING OFF MY JACKET, I headed into my suite’s kitchen and took out a bottle of vintage red wine and two glasses. Too impatient to wait for Hannah, I poured a glass for myself. As I sipped, an image of Hayley’s red lips crossed my mind.
Fuck.
I groaned and pulled out the scotch, tossing back two shots.
An hour passed and Hannah still hadn’t shown, so I poured myself a final glass of wine and headed to my bedroom. Hitting the lights, I took off my shirt and tossed it across the floor before falling back against my mattress.
I should’ve known.
No matter how many times Hannah claimed that she was "twenty minutes away," she always meant an hour. Period. On the plus side, she had a very seductive way of waking me up if I fell asleep.
I started to send her one last, "Where the hell are you?" text, but there was no point. She'd get here around two o'clock in the morning.
By the time I began drifting into a deep sleep, I felt her warm lips pressing against mine.
“Did you get lost?” I asked, sliding my hands against her sides. She wasn’t wearing anything but lace panties and a bra.
“No.”
"Do you know what the words 'twenty minutes' mean?" I slapped her ass, and she gasped.
"Um hmm..."
I slipped my hands against her back and unclasped her bra. I pushed it up her chest and palmed her breasts, stopping once my fingers caressed her nipples.
“When did you get a boob job?”
“What?” she whispered, sounding offended. “Never. Why would you ask me that?”
“Because, no offense, last time I saw you, you had B-cups. Maybe. These are definitely D-cups.”
