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I close the distance between us, loop an arm around his waist. “You don’t want to go out to a club?” I nuzzle his neck. Shaking his head, he moans a no. “Hang with your mates?” I lick his jaw as he murmurs a nah. “See a band?” I nip his earlobe, then wait for his response.
His lips coast to my ear. “Fuck me and feed me.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m feeling limber as fuck as I bend him over the bed, sink into him, and fuck him till we’re both a hot, sweaty, blissed-out tangle of downward dogs.
After we clean up, we flop onto the bed, and order yellowtail rolls, hamachi, udon noodles, and seaweed salad from room service. Then we turn on a movie, but we don’t make it past the opening credits before Hunter lifts a brow. “So, Amelia Stone?”
“Her voice is sex in musical form,” I say.
“She’s pretty foxy too.”
I picture the svelte redhead pinup. “If you like that,” I tease.
Hunter glances my way, chews on his lip. “I do. Does that bother you?”
“No. Why do you ask it like that?”
He looks even younger than his twenty-four years. “I guess…because I didn’t know if it would. I have no idea how these things work.” He points from me to him. “I mean, I have friends who are gay, and all. And in relationships with men. Shit. I mean. I know this isn’t a relationship.” His cheeks flush. “Oh, fuck me. I should stop speaking.”
He’s such an interesting mix of confidence and insecurity. Of outgoing and shy traits.
“When did you realize you were bi?” I ask gently.
“Earlier this year. I’m a baby bi. I know that’s probably super unappealing.”
I scoff, gesturing to the bed, the room, me. “So unappealing I convinced you to be with me for a week,” I say, then focus on Hunter. “I’ve dated bi guys, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m gay, but I do understand that orientation is a big, wide, beautiful spectrum, and I don’t have a list of requirements like you must only like dick. So, it doesn’t bother me that you think Amelia Stone is hot. I also have eyes, and I can tell when a woman is pretty. I get it, Hunter.”
“Yeah?” he asks, his shoulders relaxing.
“I do.” I drape an arm around him and pull him closer to me on the bed. “Also, I’m super glad you figured out you were bi before you met me.”
“Yeah, that was one of my more brilliantly timed discoveries,” he deadpans.
A few minutes later, room service raps on the door with the late-night Japanese fare, and I take the tray, thanking the waiter.
Hunter arches a brow as I return. “So, hotel food is suddenly acceptable?”
“Oh, yeah. There’s a sexy guy in my room I want to spend time with. Didn’t even want to research places to DoorDash, so I gave myself a hall pass for hotel food.”
He blows on his fingers. “This baby bi is worth a hall pass.”
So worth it.
The next morning, I walk Hunter to work again. “You live in Bloomsbury, right? Is it far from here?” I ask as we pass the teddy bears in tartan at the department store.
“I do,” he says breezily. “It’s either twenty minutes or an hour, depending on the whims of London traffic.”
I laugh. “I hear ya. What about the sister you mentioned yesterday? Does she live here?”
He shakes his head. “Harlow’s in New York, and she’s very Manhattan. Knows all the ins and outs of the city, can tell you what to eat, where to shop, and what to see in any part of the city.”
“Sounds like my sister, only trade New York for Los Angeles. Are you two close?”
“Definitely. When I was younger, I actually spent summers in New York. We were city explorers together,” he says, then his voice tightens. “My mum lives here in London, and Harlow’s mum—Harlow’s my half-sister if we’re being technical—was American. I think living with my sister only during the summers kind of made us besties as well as siblings.”
I hear just as much in what he doesn’t say as what he does—he’ll do nearly anything to avoid talking about his dad. But I’m glad he’s comfortable sharing some details of his family with me. “And do you get along with your mom?”
“She hasn’t totally given me a trolley full of issues, and for whatever reason she thinks I’m the bee’s knees, so yeah. I do,” he says, and I crack up at his Britishisms. “Also, she wants to take us to dinner.”
Whoa. Hello! “She does?”
He winces apologetically as we pass a block full of gorgeous Victorian homes. “Well, when she heard I went and got married, the first thing she said was Can I take you two out to dinner?”
“My mom said the same thing. Well, she wanted to know when she could meet you.”
