Chapter Twenty-Two
“Wake up, baby. We’re almost there.”
I blink to feel Chris’s gentle hand on my arm. “Where?”
“The hotel.”
“I don’t remember closing my eyes,” I admit. “How long did I sleep?”
“Half an hour, out cold.”
I sigh and sit up, aware of the hollow moan of my stomach as I stretch and bring the scenery into view. I gape at the miles and miles of beautiful green mountains and countryside. “It’s gorgeous. Absolutely spectacular.”
“The Mayacamas Mountains. And yes, they are.”
“I’m surprised they haven’t shown up in your artwork.”
“I’m not a landscape guy. You know that. I can’t believe you’ve never been here. You’ve lived in San Francisco since college, right?”
I nod. “Yes. I just…it’s the out of sight, out of mind thing.” And a teacher’s pay, I add silently, as my eyes light on a gorgeous hotel property and the name on the sign. Auberge du Nuit, the hotel for the rich and famous, like Chris. I remember reading about it in a magazine I’d tossed in the trash because it was torturing me with all I couldn’t do and see.
“I’m going to put an end to that out of sight, out of mind thing, baby. Just you wait and see.” He whips the vehicle onto the long driveway and I shove aside the tension his words create. I’m not going to think about adjusting to him being gone, and he will be gone. For once, I’m living for the moment, and for the dream I am chasing.
The instant the Porsche is under the awning at the front door, a bellman in a sharp black suit opens my door. I step out of the car and Chris does the same on his side.
“Good to see you, Mr. Merit,” the bellman says in greeting.
Chris rounds the hood and tosses the keys at him. “Don’t go on any joy rides, Rich.”
“No sir,” Rich agrees, grinning, and Chris slides him a tip I’m pretty sure is a hundred dollar bill. One sixth of my weekly pay for parking the car. “Luggage is in the trunk.”
“I’ll have it up right away, sir,” Rich assures him. “Are you doing an event at the gallery I haven’t heard about?”
“Not this time,” Chris replies. “For once, it’s all pleasure.” Chris laces his fingers in mine and waves at Rich.
We head toward the check-in desk. “A show?” I ask, unable to douse my curiosity.
“They have a gallery on the property.”
My eyes light up. “It seems wine and art go hand-in-hand.”
“A little too much for my taste,” he mumbles under his breath and it’s not the first time I’ve gotten a negative vibe from him about the association.
We are treated like royalty at the front desk, or rather Chris is. I am warmed by the way he keeps me close to his side, always touching me, as if he can’t stand not to be with me.
By the time we step onto the elevator, headed toward the penthouse suite and he leans against the wall, pulling me against him, my hips to his, I am all melted butter, and dripping chocolate. Yes, it’s a silly saying Ella had used when she’d first met her doctor, but it’s fitting. Ella. I miss her, and wish I’d hear from her, but Chris strokes a hand down my back, molding me closer, and my mind is pretty much mush.
He nuzzles my neck. “I cannot wait to get you alone.”
My hands settle on the hard wall of his chest and I peer up at him. “I thought we had reservations.”
“We do.” He pulls my ear to his lips again, and I know there must be cameras and recording devices. Of course, there are. “Which is why I’m going to fuck you hard and fast. We’ll go slow later.”
I gasp at the wicked words and my sex clenches, wetness clinging to my panties. Hard and fast. Oh yes. Please.
The doors ding a warning and open. Chris takes my hand and all but drags me down the hallway. The walk is eternal, the Alice-in-Wonderland tunnel of forever, before he slides a card through the door lock and we are inside. Before I can blink, I’m against the wall, with Chris pressed deliciously against me, his thick erection nuzzling my belly, his mouth devouring mine.
I moan into his mouth, the taste of him rich with desire, hungry for me. Me. That’s what makes me hottest of all, beyond his hands stroking my body, palming my breasts and nipples. How much I taste his desire for me. How much I feel his need.
“No one has ever made me lose control the way you do, Sara.” The confession is sealed with another scalding kiss, and oh yes, I am melting.
A knock sounds on the door. “Bellman.”
“Fuck,” Chris hisses, pressing a hand to the wall, and I sense him reaching for control, and have this sudden desperate need to keep him from finding it. This sudden certainty that the only way I will ever know this man as I want to is to take his control.