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It was 2.35 a.m. when Dontrel re-emerged. His long dreadlocks were limp, and his colorful tank top had darkened with sweat. The swagger he’d had in his step earlier was replaced with a mellow stroll.
“That was the bomb,” he said. “Cheers to you.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
“Totally nailed it.”
“I’m pleased for you. Do you want some help with your drums?”
“No worries. Don’t want to disturb you again.”
Like I’d be disturbed watching your glorious body. “You can borrow one of the luggage trolleys if you want?”
“Thanks. You’re all right, Miss Jane.”
He meandered away, and my breath was stolen from my throat as I ogled his perfectly toned butt cheeks dancing beneath his rolled-up jeans. The lobby became all boring again the moment he disappeared behind the elevator doors.
I checked the clock about a thousand times during the next four hours, and I was verging on exhaustion when Needledick finally crawled through the lobby at 6.38 a.m. I did the quickest handover to my boss ever and made my way up to my room on the third floor.
My energy was quickly restored as I showered and prepared for my rendezvous with Mr. Holy Hotness.
After a quick rummage through my lingerie, I found a matching bra and panties set in a sexy, green satin. They were a perfect match to his intense green eyes. It was a silly reason to choose them, but it was a much more exciting excuse than the other three times I’d worn them.
I pulled on my fishnets, wriggled into the French maid costume, and inspected my reflection in the mirror. My abundant makeup was good. My wig was on straight with none of my long hair peeking below it, but I was becoming tired of this disguise.
It really was time to update my outfit.
Scanning my abundant shoe collection, I chose a pair of green heels to match my lingerie. They were ridiculously high. Almost nose-bleed territory. Hopefully, we won’t be doing any dancing. However, if there was an opportunity to dance with Dontrel, I’d suffer through the pain even if the blisters on my feet became large enough to need their own zip code.
With my long black coat covering my costume and a large black bag slung over my shoulder, I strode from my room before the seven o’clock news started and walked along the corridor to the elevator.
As if my hips could hear Dontrel’s groovy beat, they swayed in time to imaginary music. The weariness that gripped me thirty minutes ago had long gone. I was oh so ready to get my hands on my hotter-than-hot Jamaican man.
The doors opened, and an elderly couple took one look at me and stepped back.
“Hi,” I said as I pressed the button for the eighth floor.
“Hello,” the woman responded as she gripped her husband’s arm tighter.
Hmmm, maybe she’s worried he might talk to me.
The couple were heading up to the penthouse floor. Lucky for some.
In the mirror, I saw the woman staring at my shoes, and I couldn’t decide if she liked them, or she was confused by my choice of green.
The door dinged open on the eighth floor, and I stepped out.
As the doors closed, I turned and walked straight into a woman in an expensive business suit. She stumbled back and dropped her handbag.
“Shit. I’m so sorry.” I squatted down to help her pick up items that had spilled out. Her phone. Lipstick ---
“Just. . . just leave them alone,” she hissed.
Oh shit. I recognize that whiney voice. Miss Kincay.
“Oh. Okay. Sorry.” I stood.
Her eyes scanned up my body. Crap! Does she recognize my voice, too?
