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39
Sky
Suitcase packedand a carry-on bag filled with everything I might need on the flight, plus a lot I probably don’t, I curl up on the sofa with a book.
Dylan roams around the room, inelegantly stuffing everything into his black rucksack. He turns to me, pushing a stray curl from his forehead. I’ve decided I like his hair longer—how much longer will he grow it?
“There’s something I want to do with you before we leave,” he says.
“We just did that several times,” I say with a knowing smile. The rejection I felt this morning was wiped away when we got back to the suite and I shift in the seat as the memory trips the switch to arousal again. We fly back to England today; otherwise, we could stay in bed reconnecting all day. Doesn’t even have to be the bed, anywhere will do.
“Sky, am I corrupting you at last?” he moves over and kisses my nose.
I run my hands under his black t-shirt and scrape my nails along each, lickable muscle. His stomach is at my eye level and I nip his side with my teeth.
Dylan steps back and smoothes down his shirt. “Don’t tempt me. I mean something else. Something I want to do before we leave.”
I sit back against the chair and pout. “I don’t want to go out anywhere. I just want to get back to England. We are still okay to return?”
“All good. Nobody’s being arrested. Not even you.”
“What?”
“I heard about your little act of vandalism, by the way.” The smirk annoys me; the situation wasn’t funny at the time.
“I wasn’t having a good time, Dylan. I almost punched one of the pair.”
Dylan’s smirk turns into a laugh. “Do you know how to punch?”
“Do you want me to demonstrate?”
He straightens to his full height and looks down at me. “Sure.”
Knowing that if I lash out at him that he’ll have me pinned to the bed naked in minutes I look away. “What did you want to do?”
“Stand up.” I eye him warily. “Stand up, come on!”
I place my hand in his and he pulls me up. “You’re quite happy with what you’re wearing if we go out for a few minutes?”
“Out where?”
“Yes or no?”
“Fine. Yes. I’m wearing this on the plane.”
“Great. Come on.”
A few minutes later, the elevator doors open onto the polished grey marble floor of the hotel lobby. Bellhops stand with luggage racks, their red uniforms and gold buttons shining. One of them, a young guy with close-cropped black hair watches us curiously. An elderly couple waits to use our elevator and the grey-haired man in the immaculate suit sweeps Dylan’s figure with disdain.
“Nice to meet you, sir.” Dylan grins and winks at his wife. The designer dressed, perfectly coifed blonde woman straightens and fixes him with an unimpressed look. I shove Dylan out of the elevator.
The windows at the entrance to the hotel sparkle beneath the crystal chandeliers, and the dark Manhattan day looks cool judging by the number of people wrapped up against the weather. If we go outside, the peace of the hotel will be replaced with the sound of traffic and car horns; a throng of people I don’t feel like joining.
“Where are we going? I don’t have a coat,” I ask as Dylan strides to the entrance.
As we reach the door, the concierge stares straight ahead, with only a brief nod of acknowledgement. I halt. “What the hell? There’s press out there.”
“Trust me,” he whispers against my ear.
