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Roses. Champagne. Melted chocolate on strawberries. A room service tray with dinner for two and flower petals on the floor. And the bed? The pillows and sheets reveal how bodies shared it. We shared so much on that bed, and fuck you, Love, this is exactly what I mean.
You are not to be trusted.
I force myself to turn and leave. The risk of running into Beau in the lobby has passed. In an hour, he’ll be on a plane to Boston, and I’ll be back in my condo, sitting at my desk with a window overlooking a dumpster and some palm trees, where I’ll try to write, but I won’t.
Thoughts of Beau will sneak in and grab my mind; I know it.
When he whispered into our last kiss, “Keep writing aboutus,” I suddenly couldn’t breathe. Like the sexy asshole grabbed my soul too.
I’m not mortified that he figured it out. It’s obvious; our forbidden love inspired my books.
Yes, Beau Bronson is my Valen, the Vulgarian.
But now, I’ll never write again. It’ll hurt too much.
All it took was one night for me to lose the two things that made me happy — fantasies about Beau and writing fiction.
Pressing the elevator button, I bite my lip so hard, not believing I did this to myself.
Why did I have to play the outkink game with him? We both knew I’d win. I’m the MVP of Kink, and Beau let me play him. And it was hot and erotic. It was sweet and beautiful, too. So damn beautiful, Beau brought tears to my eyes this morning, and here they go again.
Golden doors slide open, and I step inside. The soft lights in the elevator glow. Mirrors framed in gold line the four walls. White marble floors gleam below my feet. An elegant Grecian blue rug, with anMmonogrammed in gold, lies above the marble. Classical music plays, piped in through speakers, and I’m sure there are cameras in here, too, watching me, but I don’t care.
Visions of Beau lying beside me in bed, looking at me like he didn’t want to leave either, are all I can see.
So I close my eyes and let more tears fall.
Pressing my cheek to the cool mirror, the glass feels good against my flaming skin, but it can’t help. Nothing can.
Eight years of never having him and one night of sharing everything with him?
It’s not fair.
I just needed one of my dreams to come true.
And now I’ve lost both.
Nothing can help me while another sob leaps from my throat. Tears spill down my cheeks, pooling in my lips that already miss him, and goddammit, this sucks. More sobs take me, and I don’t choke them down. They get so loud I don’t even hear the doorsdingopen.
In a haze, I don’t know what floor I’m on as I glance up to find a dark shadow filling the doorway — a massive, mysterious, and magnetic shadow of a man eclipsing the light behind him.
His pull is instant, and I can’t wipe my tears away fast enough before he asks, taking fast steps my way, “Madam. Madam, are you okay?”
His accent makes me immediately trust him. The smell of his cologne makes me recognize power. His signature dark-tailored suit makes me sure it’sHIMbefore I can even see his shadowed face.
Luca Mercier.
The whole city, hell, the entire world knows the billionaire hotelier lives in his Charleston property. I guess he must roam his hallways and ride his elevators, finding damsels in pathetic distress all the time.
“Yeah,” I lie, discovering that embarrassment tastes like the bile surging up my throat. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
The elevator doors close behind him. It’s just the two of us, his hand gently touching my arm. “Did someone hurt you? Do you need me to call anyone? Please, let me help.”
It doesn’t matter how rich or how goddamn elegant and sexy Luca Mercier is; he’s famous for it. He’s famous for being the world’s most ineligible bachelor because he’s also a single dad and widower, and that has pussiesflying into our little touristy city from every country just to try to catch him, his billions, and his — I’m sure — big dick.
Because if sex were a mercenary, Luca Mercier would be lethal. He’d be your proud death.
Told you, I know people’s kinks, and Idefinitelyknow Luca Mercier’s. I’ve actually helped him before at Delta’s, but a powerful man like him doesn’t remember a piteous woman like me, and I don’t care.
