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“Well…greasing a palm or two the day before and coming on a weeknight during the off-season definitely helps as well.”
I laugh, feeling the wine just a bit. “Now those are the kinds of secrets and insider knowledge I came here for,” I joke.
“Is that the…only…reason you came here?”
“I can most certainly think of one other.”
“How strange. Me too.”
“Do you think it’s the same thing?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Sam stands and offers me his arm, just like he always does. I take it and he walks me through the restaurant, darn near parading me past all the tables making me feel like royalty as we move toward the elevators. And of course there’s a guy waiting with our dessert cart.
Even if my mind wasn’t already fast-forwarding to what comes next, this night would have already been unforgettable. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. Nothing.
Just like the first that I know I’m about to experience once we step in, and then out of, the elevator.
The staff member holds the door open for us, and once all three of us are in I can’t help but zero in on his hand, excitement and curiosity gripping me.
Which number will he punch? Which floor will we be on?
As he moves his hand his finger doesn’t land on a number at all, it lands on two letters.
PH.
The top floor.
Only a few seconds later, in the smoothest elevator I’ve ever been in, we’re basically teleported to the top floor.
The door dings and we step right out into the suite.
“I’ll just leave this here,” the man says, wheeling the cart just inside the door. “No rush at all to return it. Even check-out is fine.”
And with those brief words…he’s gone.
The elevator door shuts and another row of doors slides in front of the steel of the elevator.
Moving to the floor-to-ceiling windows I look out at the cityscape, all the dots of light in this massive megacity lighting up the night like a winning casino in Vegas.
Whipping my neck around in awe, wanting to share this moment with him, to call him over to the window to join me, to see the expression on his face everything stops.
I can’t even believe what I see. There he is, holding a knife in his right hand, shirt off with a devilish grin.
His body is swoon worthy, on the level of a Men’s Health cover, and without the need for airbrushing. And my roommate thought her hot shot quarterback boyfriend had an impressive physique.
Sam doesn’t have an Abercrombie boy body. He’s got the muscles of a well-developed, experienced, seasoned by life…man.
Tall, powerful, with scrapes, scratches, and scars that I can’t wait to get the stories behind.
The lights from outside only illuminate his angular muscles, his wide jaw, and the curves of his abdomen.
My eyes trail down his body, his trousers at just the right level where I can see those angled hip bones that form a path straight to his member.
I become fixated on that region, as if my eyes are glued to the spot…the location where his hand dives into his pants while his other hand, still holding that knife, unclasps his buckle and pulls down his zipper before his other hand flips his thick erection out into full view.
His fist is wrapped around the throbbing shaft and despite his hands being easily twice the size of mine, his grip doesn’t even cover half of his rod.
