Page 7 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

I cross the bedroom and follow the sound toward the bathroom.

Then I hear something besides water.

A laugh.

A woman’s laugh.

I stop.

What the fuck?

I take another step.

Then I forget all about fucking housekeeping.

It’s her.

The girl from the lobby.

The one with the sticker-covered suitcase and the hourglass figure I watched disappear toward the elevator.

Only now there is no suitcase.

No clothes either.

Jesus Christ.

She’s standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror, completely naked, while the shower runs a few feet away.

I’m off to her left, just outside the mirror’s reflection.

And she has no fucking idea I’m here.

Because she’s dancing.

Not really dancing. More like swaying. A slow roll of her hips, then another, both hands pushed into that honey-brown hair as she gives her reflection a ridiculous little shimmy.

I should announce myself. Immediately. I know that.

My mouth, apparently, does not.

Because for one stunned second all I can do is gawk.

There is a lot of her.

Thank fucking God.

I’ve never been into sharpness when it comes to women’s bodies. They should flow slowly, like a country road. Like honey.

And Jesus, does this woman flow.

Big tits. Thick thighs. An ass I could get both hands on and still want more. Soft everywhere a woman should be soft. My kind of fucking beautiful.

The suit pants I was already desperate to get out of feel considerably less comfortable.

Then there’s her stomach. Soft. Smooth. Not flat. Perfect.

A small birthmark sits beside her navel in the shape of a heart.