And what use is lusting if you can’t touch? Shaking my head at myself, I stop before I reach the door. Force my feet to move forward, step after step, approaching him.
He hasn’t moved from his spot. Still lounging. Still smirking. Still looking at me with those clear, gray eyes, his dark hair tousled and shiny like silk.
Stop staring, Pax.
Finally he moves, straightening and coming toward me. He moves with an easy grace, like a panther or a lion, well-honed muscles lending a light rolling gait to his step.
You’re staring again…
“Pax.”
I’ve never cared much for my name, but I like the way his voice caresses it, wraps around the sounds like dark velvet.
And crap, I’d forgotten I told him to call me Pax.
“Riot.” I also like his name on my lips, wrapped around my tongue, like a kiss, as if my tongue is tracing the lines of his mouth, his body, his soul.
“Have you booked a room?”
That breaks through my trance-like daze.
Crap. Doing it again. “Yes. Let me get the key.”
He follows me to the reception desk, leans against it with his hands in his pockets as I ask for my reservation. The girl behind the desk keeps stealing glances at him, while he manages to look unruffled and a little bit bored.
When he catches my gaze on him, though, he smiles, the dimples making an appearance. It’s almost as if I caught him on a happy thought that makes his eyes bright.
So of course again I’m staring when the key is handed to me and I barely manage to catch it before it clutters to the floor.
“Oops,” says the girl, tossing her long blond hair over her shoulder, and okay, did she do that on purpose?
“Let’s go, sweetheart,” Riot says, leaning close to me, turning his back to the girl. “Can’t wait to get you into bed.”
It makes me want to laugh, especially when I notice her outraged expression, but I follow him without another word.
Can’t believe this bitch. I’d need to find another hotel, if Riot and I were to meet again.
But we are not.
***
He takes the key from my hand as we step out of the elevator and unlocks the door, then holds it open for me to pass.
Clutching my coat closed over my chest, I step into the room, my steps muffled on the thick carpet. Heavy drapes frame the large window, and I approach, looking down at lights from the passing cars.
“How’s things?” he asks, and I turn to watch him cross the room and toss his leather jacket on a velvet-covered armchair. His T-shirt is plain black and it stretches across his muscled chest and shoulders. “How are you, Pax?”
“I’m okay.” I shiver, although it’s warm in here.
“You look tired.”
I turn toward the window. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”
“You also look beautiful,” he says, and comes to stand beside me.
“I bet you say that to all your clients,” I mutter.
“The fuck I do.”