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My hot juices sprinkled onto the dragon tattoo, and Marco’s eyes shot open. He screamed like a tortured animal, and his thick stream pulsed onto the dragon, too.
Before I crumbled into a heap on top of him, I stepped off Marco and sat on his bed until my legs stopped trembling.
He, in turn, remained on the floor, very, very still.
For a moment, I thought he might have fallen asleep, but after an extensive silence, he rolled toward me, and his cock flopped sideways.
“Beautiful woman who loves Amaretto and knows karate, you must tell me your name.”
I smiled. “My name is Memphis.”
A breath released from his lips like a magical spell. “Memphis.” He said my fictitious name like a mystical aura had embraced him.
I gathered my clothing off the floor, shoved them into my bag, put my trench coat on, and walked out of his room.
Back in my bedroom, I showered and then crawled into bed, completely spent.
I reached for my diary. At the top of the page marked the 5th of February, I wrote Marco Ricardo, Room 1 - My Dragon Warrior. I described what we did together and wrote about how deceiving looks can be. If I hadn’t seen that tattoo on Marco, I would never have believed it.
I rolled onto my side, and my mind was filled with dragon tattoos and mind-blowing sexual release as I drifted off to sleep.
The first couple of hours of my night shift dragged on with unbearable torture. There were only so many times I could rearrange my desk drawers. And every pencil was sharpened to the point where they could double as a weapon.
At one o’clock in the morning my reception phone rang. The flashing light on the console indicated it was room forty-eight. Doubting that this would be a fun chat, I checked the guest’s name attached to that room and forced a smile into my voice. “Good evening, Miss Kincay, this is Jane speaking. How may I help you?”
“Can you hear this?” The fury in her voice hit a teeth-clenching crescendo.
I strained to hear, but I didn’t need to. . . drums were beating in the background. Very loud drums. No wonder she’s pissed.
“Yes, I can, Miss Kincay.”
“That blasted music has been blaring for over two hours. Enough is enough.”
“Do you know which room it’s coming from?”
“I’m not going out there in my nightwear. That’s your job, Jane.” She snapped Jane off her tongue like my name was a bee that had stung her.
“Okay. I’ll investigate right now.”
“Make it snappy. I have a job interview tomorrow, and I need sleep.”
“Yes. Of course. Miss Kincay, I’ll--”
The phone clicked off.
I searched the computer for the names of the other guests on the eighth floor. Five of the six rooms were occupied. But only one stood out as the potential culprit. Room forty-four. . . single guy from Jamaica.
Sounds like potential for a rowdy, midnight drummer to me.
With Miss Kincay’s squealing voice still ringing in my ear, I picked up the phone again and pushed the button for room forty-four.
It rang. And rang. And rang.
Based on the noise I’d heard from Miss Kincay’s phone, which was four rooms away, I’d say Dontrel Lewis would have no chance of hearing the ringing phone in his room.
I put the ‘back in five minutes’ sign on the counter, grabbed my security access card, and headed toward the elevator. The pounding drums assaulted my ears before the elevator even reached the eighth floor.
No wonder Miss Kincay complained.
