Page 11 of Touch Me

The way she put it made my whole experience seem downright justifiable.

Her expression knotted into seriousness, and her blue eyes drilled into me. “Tell me it was good.”

My shoulders softened with relief, and I leaned forward. “It was incredible. I had my first orgasm.”

“Halle-fuckin-lujah. About bloody time. Now you know what I’m talking about.”

I grinned. “I sure do. It was amazing.”

“See. All this time I’ve been telling you to get out there.”

“I know. It’s not that easy.”

She draped her hand over my wrist. “I’m so happy for you, babe. You deserve to have some fun.”

“Thanks.”

Her gaze lingered on me for a fraction too long, and I had a rotten feeling she knew I was holding back on her.

But I wasn’t going to tell her about my entry in the diary she’d given me for Christmas. And I certainly wasn’t telling her that I’d named myself Memphis.

Something had changed in me . . . something deep, primal, and relentless. Each day, I chastised myself for my actions, and yet at the same time I was searching for the next opportunity to replicate what I’d done.

That opportunity came on Saturday night—well, actually, it was very early Sunday morning. During one of my rounds of the lower floors, where I strolled from the conference center to Horizons Restaurant, and in the Triple H Bar, I found a man, seemingly asleep in a corner booth, slumped over a table next to his beer.

How the bar manager had missed him would be a discussion for tomorrow night’s shift.

I recognized the guest. He was a young man with a troubled smile, and the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’d approached me at the lobby at around eleven p.m., ninety minutes into my shift. He’d asked if anyone had left a message for him.

I’d seen that look of disappointment before. I’d worn it myself. . . many times. My guess was this poor man had been stood up. By a mate . . . maybe? But by the way he was dressed in a button-up shirt and that his cologne smelled freaking incredible, I’d say the person who’d let him down was a woman.

When he’d strolled away, I’d noticed the cowboy hat in his hand. Back home in Mildura, that hat wouldn’t have been out of place. Here on the Gold Coast though, it screamed tourist.

He’d glided the hat onto his head as he’d ambled toward the elevator and that was the last I’d seen of him.

Until now.

His head rested on his arms, which were folded over the table. His hat was on the chair beside him. He wasn’t quite snoring, but his deep breathing hinted that he was nearly there.

His hair was the color of brandy, its tips highlighted in the dimmed bar lights, soft and feathery and flicking out at the edges where his hat had been. I had a sudden urge to drive my fingers through his wavy locks and tousle them.

Instead, I dragged myself away and went in search of help. At three a.m., though, I didn’t hold much hope. The night shift was a skeleton shift, and I was the only skeleton foolhardy enough to take on this punishing schedule.

The money had initially lured me to the job, plus the bonus of having my own private accommodation in this hotel. The catch was, I had lots of money but no life to spend it on. I found it impossible to have any social life when I worked from 9.30 p.m. to 6.30 a.m., six days a week. Wednesday was my day off, but not only was I too exhausted, my body clock told me to bugger off each time I tried to behave like a normal twenty-eight-year-old woman.

At the lobby desk, I checked the guest registrations on the computer and found the stranger’s name. Mr. Billy Johnson had checked into room number twenty-three alone for a two-week stay.

This was unusual. Not the alone part, but the two-week part. Most people stayed for a weekend or a week, but rarely more than that. My guess was he’d traveled here for work.

The lobby was deserted, as was the mezzanine floor of the hotel.

It was just me and a smoking hot cowboy.

What’s a cowboy doing on the Gold Coast?

I had every intention of finding out.

Chapter Four