“Hell yeah,” I say, finishing my wine. “Let’s do this. Fuck Tobias and Trixie.”
We turn to leave when the bartender says, “Excuse me?”
We look back at him.
“This is only enough to cover the wine and beer,” the bartender says. “The other guy didn’t pay for his bourbon.”
“Are you fucking serious?” Otter mumbles before pulling out another bill. “God, I really fucking hate that guy.”
“YES, HI,” John says, voice a little strangled as I can’t seem to keep my hands to myself. “We have a reservation?”
The girl at the desk is staring at us. “Do you?”
I lick John’s neck.
He squeaks a little. “Yes. Yes we do. It should be under John Smith—fuck. I mean, it’s under Oliver Thompson.”
“We’re married,” I tell her. “And on a date before we have babies. But we’re pretending.”
“That’s… I don’t know what that is.”
“Yeah,” I say dreamily. “Me neither. Awesome, right?”
I don’t pay attention to them as John hands over a credit card, because I’m convinced his neck would look better if I sucked a mark on it. I am not disappointed. It does.
“Would you stop it,” he growls at me. “I’m trying to—”
“Are you sure you’re going to Mars?” I ask him seriously. “Because I think you should probably go to Myanus. Crap. I mean Uranus. But still in mine.”
“We don’t get out very much,” John tells the woman behind the desk, who is starting to look a little horrified.
“I can see that,” she says slowly. “Now, we have you in a suite, room 407. The elevators are to the left. Do you need help with your luggage?”
“We didn’t bring any,” I tell her. “Because we aren’t planning on wearing clothes the entire time we’re—”
He covers my mouth again with his hand. “We’re fine,” he says.
“Riiight. Well. Your Wi-Fi passcode is—”
“Not necessary,” John says. “We won’t be using it.”
“I’m going to Wi his Fi,” I say, but it comes out muffled against his hand. I might have had a little too much wine.
“You’re all set,” she says, taking a step back. “So. You can go now.”
I drag John toward the elevators.
HE HAS me pressed up against the side of the elevator, and his hands are on my ass. He’s making this awesome rumbling sound in his throat as he licks the shell of my ear, when I say, “Wait. Wait. Hold on.”
He pulls back, his eyes already a little sex-stupid. “Huh?”
“What credit card did you use?”
“What?”
“For the hotel. Which one did you use? The Visa? Because you know we only use that one for emergencies.”
“No, I—hold on.” He doesn’t move away from me but reaches into his suit coat and pulls out his wallet. He opens it and says, “The Mastercard. I put it on the Mastercard.”