Page 269 of The Wright Man

His kiss was slow and consuming, like he had all night to ruin me and didn't mind starting now.

Then he broke away, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

"I'm gonna keep you naked, breathless, and begging for me until checkout," he whispered, his voice a low, wicked promise that melted my spine.

I whimpered—actual whimper—and bit his neck, hard enough to make him groan.

The elevator dinged.

Neither of us moved.

The doors opened... and there they stood: an older white couple, mouths slightly agape, eyes wide as hell.

We froze. Then Maleek turned, blocking their view of me with his broad frame, cool as ever.

"Y'all can take the next one," he said, calm and unapologetic, before hitting the door-close button.

They stared. We didn't care.

Because the moment the doors sealed shut again, his mouth was back on mine.

Once we hit our floor, we tumbled out of the elevator, half-laughing, half-moan-whimpering, and collided shoulder-first into a hotel guest wheeling a suitcase.

"Hey! Watch it—"

Neither of us spared him a glance.

I was too busy clutching Maleek's shirt with one hand and fumbling with his belt with the other, my lips still fused with his.

We made it to the room in record time, giggling like idiots. My legs were barely holding me upright. Maleek swiped the key card without looking, muscles taut and jaw clenched, and I already had a hand at his waistband, undoing his zipper.

I didn't even know what floor we were on. Didn't care.

We stumbled into the room like drunk newlyweds and the door slammed behind us with a heavy thud, cutting off the world.

He had me up against the wall before I could catch my breath. His hands were everywhere—my waist, my ass, my thighs—until finally he cupped my face and kissed me like he meant to crawl inside my soul. I fisted the hem of his shirt, dragging him closer, moaning into his mouth like a woman gone feral.

I barely registered the fact that we were in a suite. A fancy one, too—dim mood lighting, something soft and sensual playing over a speaker, maybe SZA or Snoh Aalegra. I caught the faint scent of gardenias and something expensive. Maleek's cologne, maybe. Or candles.

Later, I'd notice the fresh bouquet of flowers. The soaking tub with rose petals. The lingerie on the bed, black lace and burgundy silk, with a note resting on top:

For later. Or never. I won't be mad either way. — M.

But in that moment?

All I knew was that we needed a shower.

I pulled back from his mouth, breathing hard. "We've been in a courthouse, a bakery, a thrift store, and a tattoo shop today, baby. I am not letting you anywhere near that bed until we wash the day off."

He looked at me for exactly one second, like he was weighing his options.

Then he picked me up.

The bathroom was marble and moody light and steam from the moment he turned the water on. We undressed each other in the hot, half-dark — his shirt, my skirt, everything else gone in a tangle of impatience and laughter, lips never fully leaving skin. He kissed my shoulder, my neck, the curve of my collarbone while I worked his belt. I bit his jaw while he unclipped my bra. Neither of us was graceful about it. Neither of us cared.

Under the water, we were slower. The heat of the shower pressed against us from all sides, and he ran his hands up my back like he was memorizing the architecture of me, his lips dragging down my throat. I pressed my hands flat against his chest, felt his heartbeat—fast, steady, certain. His fingers moved through my curls, tipping my face up to his.

"You good?" he murmured against my temple.