Page 76 of Read My Lips

In the space in front of me, Brian’s path snaked deeper into the hotel until⁠—

Hands out sharp and final, everything stopped.

“There’s another door. Won’t open.”

Through me, Brian’s exasperation peaked, shaking his head. But he steeled himself. I glanced over over my shoulder for the snooty porter, back to the door again.

Peering forward, I scanned the imaginary wall for clues.

“Ah! A sign! Perfect.”

Up on my knees, I reached down, slotting my fingers under the bottom edge of the door, heaving up with all my might. Nothing happened. My neck muscles bulged with effort. I tried again. Once, twice, barely managing to keep a straight face.

Simon started laughing – little huffed breaths out of his nose that made me glow, and try even harder.

Tutting, arms folded, I was the porter again, staring down at Brian on his knees. This was no pantomime, every part was language, pure communication layered into the detail of every sign. “What is this guy doing?”

With an eyebrow raise, I reached to press the button next to the little informative plaque on the wall.

Looking up, I slackened my jaw, hands back under the bottom of the door, Brian’s realisation dawning on my face.

I sat back on my heels.

Crossing one pair of fingers over the other, I floated them up in a smooth line.

“Lift.”

Simon snorted.

Right in front of Brian’s gormless face, I pinged the elevator doors open with my hands. “And his father-in-law stepped out.”

Simon groaned.

“Oh come on,” I protested, signs matching my true tone again. “You’re laughing aren’t you?”

“Out of pity. That was terrible.”

He jabbed his pillow like it had lumps, but he was barely holding back a laugh. Mine was cloud-like. Maybe single peas under teetering stacks of mattresses bothered him too.

I mimicked his earlier eyeroll and wet my lips.

“Bull,” I mouthed, voice off, “shit.”

Simon scoffed, grappling me down against him, only I wasn’t fighting him all that hard. The steady heat of his body was dangerously familiar now. So was the way his eyes lingered on my lips well after we’d finished kissing.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, sagging into the plumped pillow.

“Which bit?”

“Not having to guess the punchline.” His nose wrinkled. “Don’t gloat about it.”

“I’d never.”

Curling in next to him under the warmth of the sheets felt deeply right. I could get used to all of it.

Under the covers our thighs tangled and my dick nudged against his hip. It wasn’t just the sex. It was being here, with him, like this. Pillow talk and goofing about. His perfect, vibrant home stacked full of memories and family and all the things he cared about. This decadently soft bed where he’d smiled at me, and let me chat rubbish like I wasn’t wasting his time.

But Simon still employed me. Even if he’d grudgingly admitted he liked me, he wasn’t the kind of guy to abandon his morals because I made him giggle. None of this would last. I should be grateful I’d convinced him to extend the sex holiday at all.