by Kendall Ryan
But a knock on the door interrupts him, snapping us both back to reality.
“I’ve got it.” He breaks eye contact, swinging one muscular leg over the side of the bed and stalking toward the door.
As he walks away, my gaze lingers a little longer than it should on his toned backside and broad shoulders. Can you blame me? Anyone with eyes can see that this man is drop-dead gorgeous.
But as much as I’m hesitant to admit it, there’s more to him than that. There’s something potent about him that my body reacts to on a basic level, which makes no sense because I don’t know much about Landon. And what I do know leads me to believe we have little in common.
But the feeling that I get when I look at him, that warm, breathless feeling that makes my skin all tingly and makes naughty thoughts pop into my head, is undeniable. I literally just said we should go back to being friends, so why does the idea of waking up naked next to him again set my skin on fire? It’s a question to ponder later, because Landon has turned around and is welcoming a tuxedoed man into the room.
“Hope you’re hungry,” he says, allowing the attendant to push the cart of food in before signing the check and sending him on his way.
“Wow. That’s a lot of food. Where should we start?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starting with that expensive-as-fuck wine.” He disappears into the kitchenette and returns with a corkscrew and two stemless wineglasses. “Want some?”
I shake my head, then get to work removing our silver trays of food from the cart and laying them out on the bed. I already said I wasn’t sleeping here tonight, which means getting crumbs on the sheets isn’t my problem. When I finish setting up our meal, I slide back into bed to watch Landon try to wrestle the cork out of the sleek green bottle. The muscles in his huge forearms flex and jump, more entertaining than any show in Vegas tonight, I’m sure.
“I can’t believe you’re drinking again after last night,” I murmur as he successfully frees the cork from the bottle.
“Hair of the dog, right?” He laughs, pouring himself a glass.
I shake my head. Maybe that used to work for me back in college, but those days are long gone. When he slides back into bed next to me, I give his shoulder a gentle pat. “Talk to me again when you’re thirty.”
Annoyed, he grunts. “You’re not that much older than me.”
“Uh, yeah I am. Seven years,” I remind him. “That’s over a fourth of your entire lifetime so far.”
He lifts a shoulder, unrolls a white cloth napkin containing a set of silverware, and hands it to me. “That didn’t stop me from putting a ring on it, though.”
I huff, accepting the napkin. “So much for not talking about it tonight.”
“I said we weren’t making any decisions,” he says, correcting me as he uses a steak knife to cut into a piece of filet mignon. “I was just stating a fact. Our drunk selves could set our age difference aside. So, why can’t we do the same while we’re not drinking?”
“But you are drinking.” I nod toward the glass of wine on his end table.
“A beer and a few sips of wine over the course of an hour? I’m not a lightweight. The point is, drunk or sober, the age difference doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you.”
I blink at him, struggling for one of my usual snappy comebacks, but I draw a complete blank. The only thought that keeps crossing my mind is how freaking gorgeous this man is. The last time I saw Landon in my bed, he was wearing nothing but the sheet. And trust me, I wouldn’t mind having that view again.
But even in his fitted tee and athletic shorts, Landon looks totally gorgeous. Age aside, everything else about him is exactly what I’m attracted to in a man. From his boldly masculine physique to the five o’clock shadow dusting his chiseled jawline to his dark eyebrows and his large hands.
No. Stop looking at his hands.
I drag my gaze back to his to find him smirking. It’s the first time tonight that I’ve been at a loss for words, and he’s clearly counting it as a victory. Ugh. I can’t decide if I want to kiss or slap that smug look right off his face. It’s all very confusing.
“I’m too hungry to have this discussion,” I blurt, twirling a fettuccine noodle around my fork. When I look back up at him, though, he’s grinning, unconvinced.
“Sure, Bree. Whatever you say.”
The rest of the meal is spent in relative silence, apart from the sound of the ghost-hunter documentary on TV. We’re both starving, and small talk would be a waste of time when we could be chewing.
Landon polishes off his entire steak in record time and has to help me with my filet mignon. These portions are insane, and I don’t even finish half of my lobster fettuccine. By the time we reach dessert, the two pieces of cake staring at us feel more like a challenge than a reward. We opt to split the lava cake and save the cheesecake for later. Because there’s always room for chocolate. Duh.
Reaching for a clean spoon, I do the honors of breaking into the perfect dome-shaped cake, sending the molten chocolate lava spilling out to mix with the half-melted caramel ice cream. One bite of that warm, chocolaty goodness makes my eyes flutter closed, and a low hum of satisfaction buzzes on my lips. I’m in heaven. Or at least I am until Landon pulls me back to earth, smirking into his fist.
My face falls, unamused, and my eyes shoot open. “What?”
“Nothing.” He chuckles, his blue eyes twinkling with a devilish thought. “I just . . . remember that sound.”
“What sound?”
“That sexy little hum. You made that sound for me a lot last night,” he says, his voice low.
“I did not!”
I swat his thigh—which is, whoa, rock hard—then quickly turn my attention back to the cake. If I look in those sultry blue eyes another second, I’m going to blush. I just know it. And I don’t want my pink cheeks giving me away.
“Sure, you can keep telling yourself that, but that won’t make it true.” He takes a hefty scoop of cake, smiling around his spoon. “Just like you can tell me you weren’t checking my ass out earlier. But I’ll still know that’s a lie.”
I nearly choke on my dessert in surprise. “What are you talking about?” I manage to say through a cough.
“You were sizing me up like a piece of meat at a butcher shop,” he mutters, shaking his head, even though his expression is amused. “But it’s all right. I like knowing you think I’m worth staring at.”
“Shut your face,” I say with an eye roll.
His smile only deepens, bringing out the dimple on the left side of his full mouth. “I have to ask. How’d I do?”
With a bored sigh, I huff out, “You passed, okay? Happy?”
“Extremely.” He grins. “Now, finish off that last bite of cake before we get chocolate all over these fancy sheets.”
I frown at the small remainder of cake up for grabs. “Um, no, that’s yours. I had the first bite, so you should get the last.”
He shakes his head. “No way. You’re willingly spending our last night in Vegas with me in this ridiculous honeymoon suite. The least I can do is give you the last bite of cake.”
I spoon up the final bite and hold it out to him expectantly. “It’s not that big of a sacrifice, you know.”
“I disagree. I think sacrificing the last bite of dessert is a very noble thing to do.”
“Not that,” I say with a laugh. “I mean spending the evening with you. It’s not exactly a chore to sit here and eat expensive food in a fancy suite with a hot guy.”
Landon lifts one brow. “So you think I’m hot?”
“I told you, you passed inspection,” I remind him playfully, then lift the spoonful of cake to his lips again.
Giving in, he leans forward, parting his lips for the spoon while maintaining eye contact with me. It’s strangely seductive. I can feel his low, rumbling hum buzzing through me as the chocolate hits his taste buds, his eyes sinking closed as he pulls back and chews, savoring the taste. The tingly feeling i
n my fingertips returns, but this time it’s accompanied by a flash of heat that makes my heart race. I can’t stop the sudden thought that I’d like to see him make that kind of delicious, low hum between my thighs.
“You, um . . .” I stammer, gesturing to my own mouth while looking at Landon’s. “You’ve got some chocolate sauce right here.”
His brow creases as one hand moves to his lips, wiping everywhere except where the offending chocolate is. “Where?”
“Right there . . . no, to the left . . . oh . . . may I?”
I know what I’m doing is dangerous, maybe even stupid, but I shift closer to him, sweeping my thumb over the chocolate on his lower lip.
“There,” I whisper. “All better.”
His blue eyes deepen to the color of a twilight sky, and the anticipation hanging in the air is borderline unbearable. His gaze flickers from my eyes to my mouth, and just when it’s almost more than I can take, he grabs the hem of my T-shirt and gives it a firm tug.
“Get over here,” he growls, and in one swift motion, his arms wrap around my waist and lift me into his lap.
The second his full lips crash into mine, I know all this small talk, this splitting of room service and arguing about age differences, has been a complete waste of time. This right here is what we should have been doing all night.
Our tongues flirt with each other, hesitant and careful. He tastes like red wine and bad decisions, and although I haven’t had a sip of alcohol since last night, one taste of him and I feel instantly drunk. We move slowly at first, exploring each other for the first time without the interference of alcohol, but soon our pulses begin to race. And he becomes more reckless, kissing me deeper and deeper until he’s devouring me with the hunger of a man who hasn’t eaten in weeks.
The stiffness in his shorts presses against the juncture of my thighs, and I can’t resist grinding against him, rolling my hips so I can feel his length through the cotton of my pajama pants. Shuddering at how good that feels, I grip his shoulders, digging my nails into his muscles, which makes him groan against my mouth. It’s a huge turn-on to know I can get such a visceral reaction out of him.
The hand that isn’t pressed against the small of my back floats to one breast and finds my stiff nipple, circling it until I give him a moan in return. The sensation is so all-consuming that I toss my head back, and he takes full advantage, running his lips down the column of my throat.
“You’re fucking gorgeous.” He groans the words into the curve of my neck, then trails his lips along my collarbone, leaving a trail of goose bumps behind.
“I want you, Landon,” I whisper desperately against his ear, looping a thumb into his waistband. But as I tug, urging him to let his erection spring free, he pulls back, his twilight-blue eyes suddenly serious.
He shifts, inhaling deeply. “There’s something I want to tell you first before we go any further.”
Confused, I climb off of him, a lump building in my throat. “Is everything okay? Did I hurt you?” Maybe I was being too rough again.
“No, no. Not at all.” He grins and nods toward the erection tenting his athletic shorts. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m, uh, having a great time.”
“Yeah, I kinda noticed.”
Testing my luck, I reach out and give his impressive length a delicate stroke through his shorts. He inhales sharply, his eyes fluttering closed, but then his fingers wrap around my wrist, moving my hand away.
“There’s something you should probably know first,” he mutters. “It’s not a big deal. Or maybe it is—hell, I don’t know. It’s just that I . . .”
When he pauses, my mind runs rampant with possibilities. Maybe it’s something silly, like he has to run to the bathroom first. Or maybe it’s something serious, like an STI. I hold my breath, waiting for him to finish his sentence.
“I haven’t done that before.”
I flinch. That definitely wasn’t what I was expecting. I scan his eyes for signs of sarcasm but come up blank. Maybe I misheard him. “Done what?”
“I’m a virgin,” he says, meeting my gaze.
I blink at him, the cogs in my head turning. “Like, a born-again virgin, right? There’s no way you’re an actual virgin.” He’s hot as fuck, and he’s a pro athlete. That’s just not possible, right?
A rosy color creeps up his angular jaw and across his cheeks.
Shit. Why the hell did I say that? I should have kept my mouth shut. His response says it all.
How stupid am I? I need to get out of here and put this poor man out of his misery.
“You know what? I’m sorry. It’s late. I should probably get back to my room anyway.” It’s not much of an elegant exit line, but it’s all I’ve got.
I scramble off the bed, tightening the drawstring on my pajama pants as I head for the door. My stomach twists as I bolt out, not even looking back when I rattle off a hurried, “Have a good night!”
Once the door clicks closed, I lean against it, trying to will my head to stop spinning.
Five minutes ago, I was making out with the hot-as-sin man who is legally my husband. And now I’m outside his room, trying to digest a piece of information about him that changes absolutely everything.
It feels like I just stumbled off a carnival ride. I’m hot and dizzy and confused. But I have a feeling this roller coaster ride is far from over.
• • •
Compared to the hungover hell that was Saturday morning, waking up on Sunday is a breeze.
No headache. No queasy stomach. No life-changing decisions made last night. I even managed to complete my entire skin-care routine before crawling into bed. Go, me.
All things considered, I should be feeling as fresh as a daisy. But here I am, using the hotel pillow to try to block the sunlight seeping through the curtains.
What should have been a good night’s sleep was spent tossing and turning, thinking about what Landon shared with me last night and how poorly I reacted. He was so vulnerable and honest, telling me something that, if I were to guess, even his teammates probably don’t know. And what did I do? I ran away.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was, and am, floored that someone as dripping with sex appeal as Landon could be a card-carrying virgin. But I was too nervous about offending him to ask any of the questions piling up in my head. It seemed better to just leave.
But looking back, I know I could have handled it much better. I owe him a major apology.
I roll onto my side, trying to will myself awake, but the sight of the empty space in the bed next to me makes me want to crawl back under the covers and pretend none of this ever happened. But if I did, I’m sure I would just notice that my sheets still smell faintly of him, and that might make matters worse.
No more hiding, Aubree. You have to face the mess you’ve made.
Digging through the sheets, I find my cell phone buried in the bed, then scroll to Landon’s contact, suck in a deep breath, and press the call button.
“Hello, you’ve reached Landon Covington . . .”
I hang up before I hear the rest.
Shit, straight to voice mail? Does he turn his phone off when he goes to bed? Looks like I’ll be doing this the old-fashioned way.
Tossing back the covers, I sit up, grab the room phone off the end table, and punch the button for the front desk. “Hi, can you connect me with Landon Covington in suite 2001?”
The clicking of computer keys comes over the line, followed by an extended pause from the woman on the other end. “I’m sorry, ma’am, it looks like Mr. Covington has already checked out.”
My stomach lurches. Where the hell did he go? It’s barely nine in the morning, and our flight back to Seattle doesn’t leave until four.
“May I ask how long ago he left?”
There are more typing sounds, followed by an answer that only leaves me even more confused. “A little over two hours ago.”
Slowly, the pieces start to come together in my head. If Landon’s been gone for
two hours and his phone is going straight to voice mail, it’s not turned off. It’s on airplane mode.
“Thank you,” I mumble into the phone, then drop it back onto the cradle, an unexpected knot forming in my stomach.
Without so much as a good-bye, my husband has left Las Vegas.
5
* * *
The Real World
Aubree
Today is the most Monday of Mondays to ever Monday.
After my long weekend in Vegas, all I want to do is put on a face mask, drink a cup of tea, and detox from all the noise, glitter, and bad decisions. Instead, I’m sitting at my desk with the biggest latte the coffee shop down the street could legally sell me without it being a health hazard, wondering, A) if I should have taken another vacation day to recover from traveling, and, B) if I fell asleep at my desk, would anyone notice?
Unfortunately, the answer to both of those questions is a big fat yes.
I’ve spent my entire professional career working for this charity organization. When I was fresh out of college, they hired me on as an intern to sort mail and work the tables at charity events. But I’ve spent the eight years since then climbing up the ranks, and now I’m in charge of everything related to fund-raising.
Thanks to my department, our organization serves tons of underprivileged kids in the city, making hockey accessible to families who couldn’t otherwise afford extracurricular sports. And while I’ve spent the last eight years being overworked and underpaid, it’s all worth it when I meet the kids who attend our athlete-led camps, and get to watch their eyes light up when they meet their heroes.
Unfortunately, not every day on the job is as magical as that. For example, today.
I’m scrolling through our database of new donors, all of whom need to receive a handwritten thank-you note. But my mind is anywhere but here. Mostly, it’s on the diamond ring that I slipped off and hid in my dresser drawer, and whether Landon will ever respond to me so we can discuss it. Plus, I want to apologize for freaking out and bolting at the news that he’s a virgin. But it’s kind of hard to do that when I can’t even get a text back.