Morgan
B y the time I reach the executive floor, I’ve taken off my jacket and loosened my tie. The elevator
doors open to silence. No board members. No Conrad. No Donovan telling me to let shit go. Perfect. I
swipe the key over the lock, push open the door and st ep inside. Finally. I toss my jacket over the back
of a chair and toe off my shoes as I walk farther into the suite. My socks follow, then my tie, which I
pull free and drop on top of the jacket. Ten minutes. That’s all I need. Ten minutes under a shower and
maybe I’ll stop fantasizing about strangling my younger brother with the tie I just took off. I start
unbuttoning my shirt as I cross the living room. By the time I reach the open bedroom doorway, I’ve
shrugged it off and tossed it onto the bed. Then I hear it. Water.
I stop. Not a faucet. A shower. For a second I just stand there, listening. Do I have the right room?
Maybe houseke eping is still in here. Or someone cleaned the shower and forgot to shut it off. It
wouldn’t be the first stupid mistake I’ve seen at a hotel, though I’d prefer not to find one at a hotel with
my name on it. “Hello?” I call. Nothing. Just the steady rush of water from the bathroom. I consider
going back downstairs and finding the kid who handed me the key. Then again, if houseke eping left a
shower running in an executive suite, I want to see it for myself. I cross the bedroom and follow the
sound toward the bathroom. Then I hear something besides water. A laugh. A woman’s laugh. I stop.
What the fuck? I take another st ep. Then I forget all about fucking houseke eping. It’s her. The girl from
the lobby.
The one with the sticker-covered suitcase and the hourglass figure I watched disappear toward the
elevator. Only now there is no suitcase. No clothes either. Jesus Christ. She’s standing in front of the
floor-to-ceiling mirror, completely naked, while the shower runs a few feet away. I’m off to her left, just
outside the mirror’s reflection. And she has no fucking idea I’m here. Because she’s dancing. Not really
dancing. More like swaying. A slow roll of her hips, then another, both hands pushed into that
honey-brown hair as she gives her reflection a ridiculous little shimmy. I should announce myself.
Immediately. I know that. My mouth, apparently, does not. Because for one stunned second all I can do
is gawk. There is a lot of her. Thank fucking God. I’ve never been into sharpness when it comes to
women’s bodies. They should flow slowly, like a country road. Like honey. And Jesus, does this woman
flow. Big tits. Thick thighs. An ass I could get both hands on and still want more. Soft everywhere a
woman should be soft. My kind of fucking beautiful. The suit pants I was already desperate to get out of
feel considerably less comfortable. Then there’s her stomach. Soft. Smooth. Not flat. Perfect.
A small birthmark sits beside her navel in the shape of a heart. My eyes catch on it for a second before
she turns slightly, studying herself in the mirror. And something changes. The little smile disappears
and she puts a hand on her hip, turning one way, then the other. For some reason, she frowns. At herself.
And I almost laugh. Not at her. At the fucking absurdity of it. Because whatever she sees in that mirror,
it sure as hell isn’t what I’m seeing. She sticks her ass out a little, studies it, then makes a face like it
failed some kind of inspection. Lady, if that ass is failing anything, I’d like to see the grading rubric. She
rolls her shoulders back and starts moving again. This time she laughs. And that might be the sexiest
part. Not the breasts. Not the thighs. Not even that ass. It’s the way she moves when she forgets to judge
herself. For a few seconds, she’s not studying her reflection. She’s just fucking dancing. Bare feet on
marble. Hair swinging around her shoulders. Hips swaying to music only she can hear. And laughing. I
realize I’m smiling, actually smiling, and after the day I’ve had, that alone should probably concern me.
She gives her hips one last ridiculous little shake.
Then turns. Everything slows. Her hair swings over one shoulder. Her smile is still there. For half a
second. Then her eyes find mine. The smile disappears. Her lips part. Those blue eyes go wide, first
with confusion, like her brain can’t quite make sense of the six-foot-four stranger standing in her hotel
room. Then they drop. To my bare chest. And stop. Her gaze moves over me slowly. My shoulders. My
chest. My stomach. Down to where my belt is still buckled around my hips. Then back up. Much more
slowly than it went down. Well. That’s interesting. Because for one very distinct second, she isn’t
horrified. She’s looking at me exactly the way I’ve been looking at her. Then reality catches up with
both of us. Her gaze drops again. This time to herself. Then back at me. Her eyes widen even further.
And the color drains from her face. Oh, shit. Her hands fly over her breasts. I jerk my eyes up to the
ceiling about three fucking seconds later than I should. Because apparently this day wasn’t done fucking
with me yet. “What the FUCK?” Yeah. That seems about right.