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Two attempts were required before we went into any room.
When I still got no response, I waved my key card in front of the lock and opened the door. I’d been stalking his suite since I’d arrived at work, secretly keeping tabs on him. Since he’d left about thirty minutes ago—dressed in business clothes, his beard trimmed, his neck shaved, a laptop bag hanging across his shoulder—I assumed that even if his meeting was short, I’d still have enough time to tidy things up in there.
I left my cart in the hallway, propping the door open with a wedge, and I grabbed the supplies I needed before I headed for his bedroom. I started with the bed, straightening the sheets and pulling up the comforter, positioning the pillows and decorative ones. I then wiped down both nightstands, my note still sitting in the center of the one on his—a side I only knew about because I’d spent the night in here.
As soon as the thought entered my head, I forced it out.
I tried to keep my brain busy with other things—the number of rooms I needed to get through before I could go home, the homework I had to finish before I went to bed, the dress I had to wash before I could go to the club again.
But zoning out toward those topics was almost impossible.
Because the entire room smelled of his cologne—a scent that was earthy and woodsy, like a spicy bergamot with a smoky nutmeg. And every time I inhaled, I recalled a memory of us.
One that featured his hands.
His lips.
His body.
Stop, Brooklyn.
I shook my head, hurrying into the en suite, immediately catching sight of the shower and the glass walls that encapsulated it.
The same walls he’d held me against while I was in his arms. The ones where, while I had been pressed against them, he’d thrust into me with all his power and speed, making me scream the loudest I ever had.
Good God.
I squirted some cleaner across the outside, running my squeegee from top to bottom, and I did the same to the inside. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I reached the double sinks and my lungs felt like they were going to burst. I sucked in the air and scrubbed the counter and the hardware and across each bowl. And once everything was sparkling, I returned to the bedroom, and as I was passing through, on my way to the cart, the bed was what grabbed my attention this time.
Even though I’d already been in here, the memories were still swirling, hitting even harder.
It seemed like seconds ago when we were on this bed.
That we were tearing at the sheets and comforter—and at each other.
That he spread me across the giant king.
That he used his mouth and tongue to cover every inch of my body.
I wished Malia, my coworker, and I were still on good terms. I would do anything to switch floors with her so I could make a bed that I hadn’t been fucked on.
I needed to get out of here; this room was too much.
The images, no matter what I tried to do, wouldn’t leave my head.
And it was those details and each of the moments we’d spent together that were making me believe we were perfect for one another.
When I knew we weren’t.
But they were strong enough to make me reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, bringing up my Contacts, where I clicked on his name.
Two days ago, he’d dropped me off at my car, and I almost deleted his number. I just didn’t want to be tempted to reach out.
For some reason, I hadn’t done either yet.
But my thumb was hovering over those ten digits right now …
Why haven’t I pressed down on the screen to call him?
