Until Dawn

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  The guy behind the counter—twentyish with a heavy dose of tattoos and piercings—barely looked up from his phone. “Got a credit card?”

  “As a matter of fact…” I swung my human cargo to the floor and dug into my pocket. “I mentioned the kink, right?”

  “What you do on your dime is your business,” said the guy.

  “It’s in your hotel,” I said. “So kinda your business too.”

  “It’s my nan’s hotel.”

  “And I’m sure your nan would be thrilled to know you’re taking such good care of it. We’d like the best room you’ve got.”

  “Best room’s the master suite. Six hundred and fifty for the night. Last-minute deal.”

  The redhead squeezed my elbow. “That’s—”

  “Perfect,” I said smoothly. “We’ll take it.”

  Mr. Pierced-And-Tattooed swiped my card, then handed it back. A printer whirred to life from somewhere behind him, and as he turned to grab whatever it was spitting out, the redhead grabbed my arm again.

  “That price is crazy!” she whisper-yelled.

  “We’ll get our money’s worth,” I promised.

  “I’m not actually that kinky,” she argued.

  I stifled a laugh. “Trust me. I already feel like it’s money well spent. And it’s too late, anyway. Kid’s run my card.”

  On cue, the prince of punk turned back to the counter and held out a sheet of paper and a clunky, old-fashioned key. “Head all the way up the stairs. Only door up there. Checkout’s at eleven.”

  “Thanks,” I said, then paused. “Hey. You wanna make a quick fifty bucks?”

  He eyed me, then the redhead. “Neither of you is my type.”

  “Ditto,” I replied dryly as I yanked a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet. “What I was hoping for was food. And a lot of condoms.”

  The clerk picked up the money like it physically disgusted him. “I’ll get my buddy to bring something by. Should take about twenty minutes.”

  “Great,” I said cheerfully. “We’ll try to hold off on the kink until then.”

  I grabbed the redhead’s hand and tugged her toward the stairs, where I gestured for her to go up first. As I followed, admiring the view, I marveled over the turn of events. An hour earlier, I might’ve said the evening was in the running for one of the worst ever. Right up there with the time I’d decided to spend New Year’s in New York, where I’d been mugged, then accused of mugging someone else and subsequently spent the stroke of midnight in a cell, fending off a kiss from a very drunk, very big, very hairy man who insisted on calling me Lydia.

  My current situation…it didn’t really have an accurate comparison. Kid at Disneyland or puppy at Christmas, maybe? Was it fair to say that the grown-man equivalent of those things was unexpectedly taking a beautiful woman to bed? I didn’t know for sure. But one thing was for damned certain. Whatever the hell else happened on my trip—even if the owner of Trinkets and Treasures managed to turn down my in-person offer—every shitty moment was worth what was about to come.

  * * * *

  Mia

  I could feel him staring at my ass as we climbed the three flights of stairs. And I liked it. I liked knowing his eyes were on me. I liked having his full attention. I even slowed down to prolong it, taking the steps one at a time. My thighs rubbed together under my skirt, the residual wetness from my orgasm making the movement altogether a little too enjoyable. And it was easy to imagine his hands on me again. I could almost feel them sliding up, up, then up a little more. I had to bite back a gasp as I reached the top stair and his palms really did land on my hips.

  “You’re killing me,” he growled.

  “Am I?” I replied innocently.

  He spun me by my hips, pressed me to the wall, and bent to nuzzle my neck. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”

  “I really don’t,” I breathed, relishing the way he made goose bumps rise everywhere.

  “Guess you’re just at great improvising?” he teased.

  “I did climb out a window earlier,” I reminded him.

  “Ah. Was that an improvisation?”

  “I had to get out somehow.”

  “You locked yourself in?” He pulled away to meet my eyes. “Now I’m genuinely curious.”

  “So curious that you want to stop doing this?” I slipped my hands to his thighs.

  “Possibly.”

  He said it jokingly, but for a second, I could swear that he was genuinely torn. And his pause made me pause. Wasn’t the whole idea of an anonymous encounter to stay that way? If we started telling each other things—even small things—it seemed like a surefire way to change the dynamic.

  He reached up and pushed a strand of damp hair away from my face. “We’ve got twenty minutes to kill. I’ll gladly use that time to kiss you head to toe. But I’d far prefer to do that when I know I won’t be interrupted.”

  I stared up at him, momentarily losing myself in his dark gaze. “Sorry. Did you say something after the bit about kissing me head to toe?”

  He chuckled, then let me go. “C’mon. Let’s go see if Tattoo Dude really gave us a good deal.”

  I let him take my hand and lead me from the wall to the door, but inwardly I was cringing a little. The cost of the room wasn’t out of line with a nice room at a mid-range hotel in Vancouver. But it was way outside of my own budget. When I’d suggested the Memory Motel, I’d assumed we’d get the cheapest room. That we’d split the cost. Or that I’d offer to split it, and he’d argue, and I’d give in. Something that wouldn’t make me feel like I was about to walk in to the most expensive one-night stand in the history of one-night stands. Although, now that I was thinking about it, my tall, dark, and handsome stranger didn’t seem to care much about money at all. He’d tossed a stack of bills at the cab driver, and paid the front desk clerk a pretty hefty tip for his special request. The cost of the room hadn’t made him flinch in the slightest. And though I hadn’t noticed it before, his suit looked expensive, he wore a designer watch, and his mud-covered shoes were definitely worth more than the heels I’d abandoned on the ledge of my building.

  Mr. One-Night is loaded.

  Which made me curious about what he did for a living. He was in town for business, he’d said. Where was he visiting? And what kind of business did he have? How long would he be in the city for?

  Dammit.

  The sudden tumble of questions made me realize where the dark-eyed stranger’s look of indecision had come from. I wanted—really wanted—to tear off the buttons of his dress shirt and lay siege to his undoubtedly perfect body. But it was hard to just put aside the getting-to-know-you bit. Especially to someone I was so attracted to.

  His hand landed on my elbow, jerking me back to the moment. He’d opened the door and was watching me expectantly.

  “I really do need something to call you,” he said.

  I blinked. “What?”

  He grinned. “I tried ‘baby’ and ‘sweetheart’ and ‘honey’. None of those got me a response.”

  My face warmed. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he replied, gesturing for me to go into the room first. “Just tell me what completely fake name to whisper when I want you to look my way.”

  “A fake name?”

  “Or a nickname.”

  “Red?” It popped out before I could stop it, and he eyed my hair.

  “Really?” he said, and he sounded so surprised that I actually laughed.

  “No,” I replied, stepping into the room. “Not really. Pretty much every person I’ve met since I was born has called me Red.”

  “So not Red.”

  He closed the door behind me. “Mm. But now I wanna try it out.”

  “Go for it.”

  “I might.”

  His arms came up and circled around me
from behind. I sank into the embrace and surveyed the room. It was warm and elegant, with wood trim, antique furnishings, and giant bed covered in a sexy, maroon duvet. My gaze lingered on the last item. It was easy to imagine sinking into it. Wrapping myself around my dark-haired stranger.

  Your dark-haired stranger?

  Before I could answer the surprised and slightly accusatory voice in my head, my mouth dropped open and I said something unexpected. “My family calls me Lu.”

  “Lu?” His voice wrapped around the nickname like a satin sheet.

  “Since I was a kid.”

  “Louise?”

  “No.”

  “Lucille?”

  “Nope.”

  “Luna?”

  “No.”

  “Would you tell me if I was close?” he asked.

  “Probably not,” I admitted.

  He laughed. “All right. What would you like to call me?”

  I answered without thinking it through. “Does your family have a nickname for you?”

  “Oh, they call me names all right. Nothing I want to hear coming from those pretty lips of yours, though.”

  Curiosity struck again, and I extricated myself from his arm and turned to face him.

  “I can’t imagine anyone calling you not nice things,” I said.

  His mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “Well. It wouldn’t be very easy to get you into a hotel room if I told you all my terrible secrets first, would it?”

  “Dammit. That’s what I should’ve asked about.”

  “Too late now.” He reached up and ran his arms from my elbows to my shoulders, then back down again. “What do you think I look like? A Dominic? A Peter?”

  I pretended to scrutinize his looks. “You probably have one of those names that used to be a girl’s name, but got repurposed as a boy’s name. Jane.”

  “Jane?”

  “Mm. Or…your parents were New Age types, so they gave you something spiritual. Black Forest Cake.”

  “Black Forest Cake is spiritual?”

  “Haven’t you ever had it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it wasn’t a religious experience for you?”

  He laughed, but I couldn’t take a minute to gloat over my terrible joke. I was too distracted by the fact that the back of my knees had just hit the bed. I hadn’t even realized he was backing me up.

  I narrowed my eyes at him as he kicked off his shoes. “Oh, you’re slick, aren’t you?”

  “Learned it from my New Age parents,” he replied.

  The sudden, predatory glint in his eyes was all the warning I had before his foot kicked out to hook behind my ankles. And it wasn’t enough to save me from being knocked flat onto the mattress behind me. In a heartbeat, he was poised over of me. His hips were between my thighs, his chest flush with my breasts, and his strong arms flexed into a push-up position on either side of my shoulders.

  “I thought we were waiting for the…uh…special delivery?” I asked breathlessly.

  “We are,” he replied.

  “Funny way of showing it.”

  “We’re just talking.”

  “Talking?”

  “Yes. Fabricating stuff about each other’s lives.” He relaxed his arms and dragged his lips along my jaw.

  My pulse jumped. “Right. Like how you started your career.”

  “How did I start my career?” he repeated?

  “Well. You were rebelling against your New Age parents. So you decided to start a business.”

  “And what’s my business?”

  “Selling scientific textbooks,” I said.

  “Of course.” He slid down a little, put his mouth on my top button, and gave it a tug.

  He’s not seriously going to—yep. Yep he is.

  The button sprang free. Not open. Completely free. He spat it out then shot me a grin.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “the scientific textbook business is going well. I can buy you a new shirt.”

  My pulse thump-thump-thumped even harder. “This is why you failed in your hobby.”

  “Refresh my memory. What’s my hobby?” he asked.

  “Underground boxing.”

  “Right. That’s how I stay so fit.”

  “It was,” I corrected. “Until you kept tearing off your opponents’ clothes with your teeth.”

  “Bad habit,” he agreed.

  He slid down again, growled, grabbed the next button in the same manner as the first, then ripped it off. My blouse flopped open. My dark-eyed stranger’s eyes landed on my exposed skin. His gaze stayed there for a long moment. When he lifted his eyes to meet mine, they burned with intense longing. And his voice was just as raw.

  “Those fucking freckles…” he said.

  “Scourge of my redheaded existence,” I replied.

  “They’re so damned sexy.”

  “Really?”

  “You have no idea. I want to touch them all. Taste them. Every single one.”

  “There’s a million of them. It would take a lifetime.” As soon as I said it, I realized how it could be perceived, anonymity or not.

  But he just dipped his head again, this time to press his tongue to my freckles.

  One-two-three-four.

  “Like a never-ending game of connect the dots,” he murmured.

  Five-six. Seven-eight.

  Each touch made me moan. Each time he pulled away, I wanted to beg for more. I was so busy losing myself in the attention that I didn’t notice as he shifted slightly so that he was beside me instead of on top of me. I didn’t feel him loosen the rest of my buttons until his hand was already pressed to my stomach and making its way up to the edge of my bra.

  “I wanna take this off.” His words rumbled against my chest. “Say that I can.”

  “Yes!” It was a gasp.

  With startling deftness—one-handed and with no visible change in his position—he snuck his hand under me, pinched the clasp of my bra, and dragged it off. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the lace-and-satin item flying. For a moment, I felt exposed. Especially when his hungry gaze found my bare breasts again. Then he dropped a reverent-sounding curse and lowered his head, and any hint of self-consciousness disappeared.

  His tongue flicked over one nipple, then the other. His mouth lingered on the second one, opening just enough to draw it in. He sucked. Gently at first, then a little harder. Then harder still. It made me ache for more. Ache for him.

  And it suddenly struck me as unfair that I was halfway to naked while he was fully clothed, tie and all. I really didn’t want him stop what he was doing. But I was also desperate to get him undressed. A battle waged in my head for a second before I decided I really needed to touch him too. Skin to skin.

  I slipped my hand between us and fumbled to loosen his tie, and when he realized what I was trying to do, he released his hold on my nipple to make it easier for me. The loss of contact was an acute throb. I very nearly dropped his tie so I could press his face back to my breast. Thankfully, he hurried the process along.

  His fingers closed over mine. They expertly dug into the knot, and once he had it loosened enough, he let me yank it over his head. The second it was off, I moved on to his dress shirt. Even though my hands shook with anticipation, I managed to make short work of the buttons. Of course, the second his chest was exposed, the world slowed down.

  If I’d thought his face was model-esque, it had nothing on his finely sculptured body. Abs for miles. A real honest-to-God six-pack.

  No, I corrected as I ran my hands over the muscles in awe. An eight-pack.

  He let me explore the ridges of his stomach and chest, his eyes closing and his breathing turning shallow as I continued my perusal. When my fingers grazed the edge of his pants, he groaned. I liked the sound of it. The power of it. K
nowing that it was me, making him react.

  Spurred on by a desire to drive him even crazier, I grasped the button at his waistband and tugged it open. The zipper came free at the same time, sliding down, revealing a pair of charcoal gray boxer briefs. Beneath those, the obvious bulge of his erection beckoned.

  I didn’t stop to think about it. I reached in by instinct, sliding my hand past the elastic to grip the bulky length of him. The second my palm hit the silky hardness, a wave dizzying want hit me so hard that my entire body shook. My core tensed. My vision blurred. And the next breath I took burned through me.

  Holy hell.

  As I started to tug—both with a need to satisfy him and to draw him closer—his eyes opened wide, his pupils so dilated that they blocked out his irises almost completely. And his stare pinned me to the spot. I’d never seen such a ravenous expression. It made me wonder if I had the same look on my own face. The feeling raging through me was certainly one that threatened to consume me.

  I breathed out, and a surprising need to say something—I wasn’t sure what—tried to take over. But before a single word could make its way out, a sharp rap on the door interrupted.

  “Shit,” said my dark-eyed stranger. “Our room service.”

  He stared at me for another second, then spun and—without bothering to do up his pants or grab his shirt or even cover me up—he strode across the room. He twisted the doorknob and opened the door just barely a crack, and reached his hand through wordlessly before slamming it shut again. Something flew from his hand to the dresser, but I didn’t see what. And it didn’t take much longer than a blink for him to return to his spot in front of me. His fingers were clasped around a small, purple box.

  Condoms.

  I no sooner realized it than he had the cardboard open and the short strip of foil pinched between his teeth. I watched as he pushed his pants and underwear down, my breath catching and the heady, overwhelming arousal doubling as my eyes hung on his rigid manhood. But he gave me an unfortunately short amount of ogling time.

  In yet another slick move, he tore open the silver package, drew out the condom, then rolled it on to his waiting erection. I couldn’t hold in a moan at the way his big hands worked the latex up. And the moment he had it in place, he dropped one knee between mine.