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Standing, she hooked her bag over her arm, and gave me a deadly glare that could ignite a bushfire.
Screw her!
Forcing myself to move, I matched her scowl as I ran my gaze down her crisp white suit, then I strode from the lift like I owned the fucking hotel.
Confident that my outfit and makeup launched me well away from mousey Plain Jane who hid behind the lobby counter, I strutted to room forty-four.
But her eyes were heat-seeking missiles aimed at my back.
Glancing over my shoulder, she glared at me.
Shit. The bitch is still watching me.
If I knock, it will look very suspect.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I stopped at Dontel’s door and when I glared at her, she raised her chin, like she was dishing out a warning.
Damn it. I fished my master access card from my bag and, resisting giving her the bird, I swiped my security card over the panel and strode into Dontrel’s room as if it were my own.
My breath caught at the sight of him.
My gorgeous Jamaican drummer was in bed, lying on his side with his thick dreadlocks spread out on the white pillow like silky ribbons. He had one arm beneath the pillow, and the other one wrapped around it as if he was embracing the soft cushion.
In the early morning sunlight, his dark skin had a luscious depth to it, like liquid molasses. He was naked from the waist up, but the sheet draped over his hip made it impossible to see if he wore anything else. His early morning pose was flawless.
I could sit and watch for hours. And I sure was tempted.
Dontrel farted, snapping me out of my trance, and I giggled.
Clutching my hand over my mouth, I forced down the uncontrollable urge to burst out laughing. This was unreal. I’m in the bedroom of one of the hottest men in the world.
But this wasn’t me.
No. Plain Jane had left her shit behind when she walked out of room thirteen. Horny Memphis was here and ready for action.
What would Memphis do?
I strode to his dining table, removed my robe, tugged out a chair, and sat where I had a full view of Holy Hotness. My stomach did little flips as I thought about what lovely things I’d be doing with him when he woke up.
But he didn’t wake up. And a wave of awkwardness washed through me.
Deciding that Memphis wouldn’t just sit and wait, I stood and cleared my throat.
Nothing.
“Hello.”
Nothing.
“Excuse me. It’s time to wake up.”
He stirred and flipped his head from one cheek to the other. Then nothing.
I huffed, strode to his side, sat on the edge of the bed between his bent knees and his elbow, and with my hand on the corded muscle dominating his shoulder, I shook him. “Helloooo.”
“Yo mon whatcha doin’.” Even half asleep, his voice was liquid gold. He blinked. Blinked some more. Then he rolled onto his back. The sheet shifted sideways, but I was determined not to peek.
