She looks down at the monitor and begins typing again. “I’m sorry, but we’re completely full at the moment.” She frowns.
“Okay, then just a regular room with two beds?”
She shakes her head. “We have no occupancy other than the suite you reserved.” She explains that there’s some big fashion convention happening this week and many of the hotels are full.
I consider searching for another hotel, one outside the city, but with my meetings all being in the business district, I realize that’s silly. Mia and I are adults. We will be fine sharing a room. Shit, we used to have sleepovers all the time when we were little.
“Fine,” I say to the clerk. “Please send up our bags.”
I find Mia admiring an oil painting at the far end of the lobby.
“The colors are amazing,” she says when I get close.
I love how she can find such simple joy in things. I realize if I was here with Tatianna, she’d probably be complaining that our room wasn’t quite ready and her nose would be stuck in her phone.
“I have some news,” I say, guiding her toward the elevator with my hand at the small of her back.
“What’s that?”
“The reservation was made months ago by my assistant, and now the hotel is completely full.”
Her eyebrows draw up. “So? Spit it out, Collins.”
“How do you feel about sharing a bed?”
“Oh.” She lets out a nervous laugh and staggers back a step, her hand curling around the railing inside the elevator, like she needs the support to remain upright.
Before she has time to respond, the doors open to our floor. We walk in silence to the room, and I slide the key card into the slot beside the door.
“It’ll be fine,” I assure her, motioning her to enter ahead of me.
“Of course,” she says.
My stomach tightens into a knot, because the moment the door closes, and I’m alone with Mia, all I want to do is throw her down on the bed and kiss the living daylights out of her. Perhaps it was our close proximity on the plane, the way she rested her head on my shoulder while she slept, or that I feel closer and more connected to her than I have any right to. She’s not mine. But shit, I want to feel her hot mouth on mine and soft body in my hands.
Shit.
Memories float into my brain, how her body felt under mine the first time we had sex, how her tight pussy fit me like a hot glove… No one has ever felt as good. Even though it was our first time, and it was little awkward, it was still the best, because it was not just physical, it was life changing, it was with the one person who had no hidden agendas, it was just two people with real feelings, exploring each other. I would kill for another chance like that.
A knock at the door interrupts my wicked thoughts, and I tip the bellhop after he delivers our suitcases.
Clearing my throat, I mumble something about cleaning up and head to the bathroom.
Christ, how am I supposed to survive an entire week sleeping beside Mia, watching her emerge pink and damp from the shower, listening to her sleepy sounds as she drifts off, being surrounded by her scent…
I scrub my hands over my face. I feel like an awkward teenager. So I do the only thing I can think to do. I grab a squirt of body wash and begin jacking myself off.
My hand slides up and down and as hot water pelts against my back. I close my eyes and lose myself in the moment, pumping my fist over my cock in eager strokes. When I picture Mia’s round ass and lush tits I come so hard I have to fight to suppress the groan crawling up my throat.
When I emerge from the bathroom with a white towel secured around my hips, Mia is sitting in the center of the bed with a map of Paris unfolded in front of her.
“Plotting out your route?” I ask, grabbing my suitcase.
She looks up, sees my undressed state, and her eyes widen in surprise. “Uh-huh,” she mumbles.
“Sorry, I’ll get dressed in the bathroom, I just need to grab my clothes.”
After I’m changed, we head out into the sunlight, Mia snapping photos of every cathedral and fountain with her camera phone, and talking excitedly about how cute the quaint cobblestone streets and cafes are. I’m at ease in her presence, and I’m able to just relax before the big meeting tonight.
We stop at a patisserie, and I buy her a coffee and a chocolate croissant, ordering in French, something I’ve done a million times before, but the way Mia’s raises both eyebrows, you’d think I’d just flown to the moon.
“Why didn’t I take French in school?” she says. “It sounds so elegant.”
Then she sinks her teeth into the flaky pastry crust and moans as she chews. There’s something Tatianna would never do.