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“If there’s anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to call.” The manager hands Tate his personal card and shuts the door behind them.
“What’s with the caviar?”
“I’m indulging. I eat caviar when I indulge.” I’ve never had caviar in my life. I just want to feelPretty Woman-ish. It probably tastes like dirt.
Tate dismisses me and moves through the suite, inspecting the space. When he heads toward the stairs, I quickly spit out, “Bedroom’s mine. Feel free to get cozy in the tub or hallway.” I grab my bag and hiss at the soreness.
“Let me help you—”
“I’m fine—”
“Stop being so stubborn. You’re only makin’ in worse.” He clutches the handle and tosses my bag over his shoulder. “After you.” After an impressive eye sneer, I start my own tour.
The first floor is breathtaking, with an intimate seating area, spacious living room, bathroom, and dining area. The upstairs is just as beautiful. Both levels have access to a huge balcony facing the city skyline. And just as I thought, there’s a soaking tub. “You and I have a date later,” I tell the marble bathtub. “And you,” I point to Tate. “Out.”
Like a good boy, he obeys, dropping my bag on the bed and closing the door. I finally release a staggered breath and grip the bathroom counter for support. I gaze down at my wound. “You’re going to be a problem, aren’t you?” I groan. For such a little cut, it sure packs a big punch.
From downstairs, I hear the doorbell.
Inhaling and releasing a long breath, I push off the counter and make my way down.
“Is there anything else you need, Miss Parks?”
“No, that’ll be all.” When he leaves, I lift the tray and scrunch my nose at the smell. Picking up the fancy baby spoon, I take a little scoop and place it in my mouth. Then I spit it right back out. “Gross. How do people eat this stuff?” I drop the top, using the napkin to scrape off my tongue. “All yours.” I go over to the mini bar. “This? All mine.” I snake a few mini bottles from the fridge.
“You gotta eat. You look pale.”
I wave him off, holding my breath and fighting through the pain while I retreat upstairs. “I’m taking a bath. Do not disturb.”
“Fuckin stubborn.” He picks up the phone and calls for more room service. Just before I slam the door, the magic word travels up the stairs.Tacos.
Not this time, jumbo jerk.
Placing the bottles on the counter, I turn on the water. While it’s filling, I attempt to work my shirt off. The problem is my shoulder is so sore, it’s painful to lift my arm. “Come on, just slide over—owww,” I groan, having to drop my arm. Fuck! I look at myself in the mirror, homing in on the glorious tub in the reflection. “I just want to take a bath,” I whine. I weigh my options. Take one with my clothes on, don’t take one at all, or ask Tate for help.
I debate a moment longer. “Worse sacrifices have been made,” I tell myself and limp back down the stairs, finding Tate on the couch. “I need your help.”
“With?”
“I want to take a bath, but… my shoulder… I can’t get my shirt off on my own. I need you—”
“All right.” He stands and walks over. “Let’s go.” I turn around and totter up the stairs, Tate following behind me. Once in the bathroom, I stop and face him.
“No funny business. I just need help.”
He doesn’t reply or comment. His hands go to the hem of my shirt and gently lift it up my stomach, making sure not to hurt me. “Can you raise your arm at all?”
“Yeah, but only this far.” I lift it halfway.
He maneuvers my left hand slowly, stretching my shirt sleeve and sliding my arm through. I try not to acknowledge that I’m partially shirtless and the way he’s touching me has my nipples hard. “I’m going to slide it over your head now,” he warns. I nod, holding my breath. Gently, he works my shirt over my head. I’ve stopped breathing altogether. I’m motionless, wondering if he’ll try to touch me more. Take back everything he said earlier. His gaze sears into me, and I beg for his lips on mine. His eyes skim over my collarbone before dropping to my chest. When his fingers graze my shoulder blade, I can’t hide the goosebumps that rush over my skin.
His voice is soft. “Do you need help with your pants?”
I should say no. I definitely don’t. But my aching arousal says otherwise.
“Yes.” He nods and locks his fingers inside the waistline of my yoga pants, lowering them with a slowness that may kill me. My heart beats erratically. I hold my breath, waiting for his next move. He lifts one leg, and I step out, then repeat the process with the other. His nose is so close to my core, there’s no way he can’t know how turned on I am.
By the time he drops my pants and stands, I’m close to becoming undone. He stares down at me. I know he feels it, too. This connection. It sparks between us, threatening to set the world on fire.
