Fuck.
She’s wet. Not just damp—wet. Her skin still shimmers from the shower or a bath, tiny rivulets of water trailing down her collarbone and over the soft swell of her breasts. I track one bead of water as it slides lower, disappearing beneath the towel.
And of course, my cock doesn’t miss a beat. It stirs to life, hardening fast because, really, how could it not? This woman is stunning. The kind of beautiful that makes your chest tighten and your pulse pound.
I shouldn’t be staring. I know I shouldn’t. But damn it, she’s standing there looking like temptation itself, and I’m only human.
“What the—who the fuck are you?” she yells, her voice rising in panic. She clutches the towel tighter, holding it like a shield against an intruder.
Should I tell her I can still see her pretty tit? Probably not. Instead, I smirk, the absurdity of the situation hitting me all at once. Maybe this is the hotel’s way of making up for their mistake—sending a beautiful woman to welcome me. They work fast.
This is a service I could definitely get on board with.
“I’m ready for my massage,” I say, unbuckling my belt with deliberate ease. “Are you giving me the happy ending, or is that an extra I should request before we start?”
Her jaw drops, her expression flipping between confusion and fury. “Massage? Happy ending?” she repeats, like she’s testing the words for poison. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
“Depends,” I say, letting my belt hang loose, smirking just enough to needle her further. “What kind of massage are we talking about here?”
Her face flushes a deep, fiery red, her shock quickly boiling into rage. “Get the fuck out of my room, or I’ll call security.”
Before I can respond, she lets out a shriek and stumbles through a flurry of what sounds like half-baked Italian. “Aiuto! Si . . . so . . . see—soccur? . . . Saycurezza?! Help me—uh—man. Signore here. Ayuda aquí. Just fucking help me, he’s attacking me!”
Her words tumble out in a confusing, choppy mix of terrible Italian, Spanish, and plain desperation, like she’s cobbling together phrases she vaguely remembers from Google Translate. Honestly, it’d be endearing if she weren’t glaring at me like I’m some kind of criminal.
“If you’re not here to give me a massage, why are you in my room?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.
Her face twists into pure disbelief. “Your room? I’ve been here for hours.”
I glance toward the bed—the scattered rose petals, the toppled towel swans, the general chaos—and then back at her. “Well, that explains the mess. You desecrated my room, but now that I’m here, you’ll have to find your own.”
Her jaw drops, her expression swinging wildly from mortified to livid in the span of two seconds. “Mess? You think this is my mess? Those stupid petals were here when I arrived.”
I raise an eyebrow, keeping my tone deliberately dry. “And the towels?”
“They were stupid swans. Looking all romantic and . . .” She waves a hand furiously at the crumpled pile on the floor, her gesturing so frantic the towel slips lower. Now it’s barely covering anything.
I clear my throat, flicking my hand toward her towel. “Not to interrupt your rant, but you might want to adjust . . . uh, your towel.” I gesture vaguely, mimicking the motion of pulling an imaginary cover over my chest. “You’re, uh, showing the goods. Don’t get me wrong, the view’s fantastic, but . . .”
Her eyes widen, and she glances down, clutching the towel tighter against. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she mutters, cheeks burning.
It’s both funny and weirdly endearing, watching her wrestle with the fabric while still glaring at me like she wants me vaporized.
And then the cracks start to show. Her anger wavers, and her lip trembles as she says, “Can anything go right this week?” Her voice breaks, and tears spill over her lashes like she’s been holding them back for hours. “This is my room. The honeymoon suite I was supposed to spend the week in with the asshole who left me at the altar.”
Oh no. Tears. I don’t do tears.
I glance at the ceiling as if some divine intervention might help. The Vatican is nearby. Miracles should happen here on demand, right? But nothing happens.
“Focus, Timberbridge,” I mutter under my breath. Fix this, or better yet, run. But no—running isn’t an option. Not now. “There’s obviously been some kind of mix-up. Maybe they were supposed to send me to another suite. The reservation was canceled yesterday,” I say, forcing calm into my tone. “Let me call the front desk.”
“They said this was canceled yesterday?” And now her tears are mixing with anger. “Chase booked this stupid honeymoon last year.” Her voice cracks as she practically spits his name. “Fucking Chase. Can you believe that bastard left me at the altar wearing a fucking wedding dress that I didn’t even like? And he dared to cancel this, even when it was fully paid.”
I wince. She’s crying and cursing all at once, and I’m not sure which I want to deal with less. “Okay,” I say slowly, holding up my hands like I’m calming a feral cat. “How about we figure out a room for one of us?”
Her laugh is biting, laced with sarcasm and disbelief. “Oh, brilliant idea, Captain Obvious. Which one of us gets the honeymoon suite? You, the random guy who walked in half-naked? Or me, the devastated ex-bride who was supposed to be here?”
She’s biting, furious, and undeniably captivating. And I hate it. Hate that, for a split second, I forget how exhausted I am or how much I don’t want to be here.
