Page 21 of Naked Coffee Guy
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
Chapter Nine
Maren
Casual is the kiss of death. I know this. I’ve done it way too many times.
Brock, my loser apartment manager-slash-fling, wasn’t even the worst of them, though he was the skeeziest. The worst was Damon, the British guy who didn’t even like coffee. No, this guy drank tea with milk—which would have been a hard pass, except that I loved his accent and could have listened to him talk for hours. So I gave him a chance, and then he showed me just what those British guys like to do on the other side of the pond.
Let’s just say that when Damon said he liked eating peaches, he was not talking about the fruit. My no-relationship rule went out the window as I entertained a global love affair with a lifetime supply of mind-shattering orgasms.
Unfortunately, there would be no his-and-hers luggage in my near future as Damon took my no-relationship rule seriously. When it came time for him to leave, he did so without a second glance—my texts left on read, my calls unanswered, and no access to his social profiles, cluing me in that I’d been blocked.
It was rejection times ten and a perfect example of why I don’t do relationships.
Which is why it took me by surprise when I found myself considering a relationship with Mac that first night I met him, and why I’m now nervous about this casual arrangement I’ve agreed to.
I also didn’t expect for him to cash in so soon. After that damn kiss in the alley, I could barely think, let alone add some sense to this crazy situation. He left before I could offer any kind of argument. But when he texted me this afternoon, telling me when and where to meet him tonight, I texted back with a few hard stop ground rules.
1. It would be a secret from everyone. That meant no PDA (sexual and non-sexual), no dates, no telling anyone. Nothing.
2. It would be on neutral ground and coming out of his pocket.
I mean, the guy stole my home out from under me. Plus, the watch in his wrist alone tells me he can afford it. He owes this much to me.
In theory, I should be able to treat Mac like any other shag (as Damon referred to it), but I also know that Mac isn’t like any of the other guys. Despite the fact that I hate this man, I can’t deny the hold he has on me. I want him, just as bad as he wants me. My mind may have a list of reasons to stay away. My heart might be building a fortress to keep him out. But my body? It’s already screaming his name, and he’s hardly touched me.
Hardly. My lips still feel bruised, the memory of his kiss tattooed all over my mouth. I had to go back to work like that, my core aching as I counted down the minutes to clock out. And now, here I am sitting in the parking lot of the Seafarer Hotel, my sweaty hands gripping the steering wheel as I summon the courage to get to the room, my legs clenched together in anticipation for what’s to come.
NCG: Coming?
The single word text from Mac makes me bite my lip.
Me: Not yet.
NCG: You will be.
Fuck me. I can’t with this man. I look up at the tall hotel building, then I take a deep breath.
“This is just a fuck, Maren,” I remind myself, “nothing more.” Another deep breath, and I unbuckle my seatbelt, grab my overnight bag, and head for the stairs.
Me: Here
I text as the elevator approaches his floor, then I walk the hallway, inhaling the clean scent as I take in the art lining the walls between rooms. When I reach the number he gave me, I lift my hand to knock but see that the door is ajar, resting on the latch to keep it from closing. I nudge it slightly.
“Mac?” I wait a beat, then push it all the way open. I’m not sure what I expected, but it isn’t this. The only places I’ve ever stayed at were seedy motels that looked straight out of the 1970s that probably hadn’t been cleaned since then either. This place is breathtaking and a little overwhelming. From where I stand in the doorway, I can see straight to the windows that overlook the ocean. The moon is shining bright, illuminating the rippling water, creating an ethereal glow that complements the soft glow in the room. To my left is the bathroom, which is about the size of my bedroom. There’s a giant soaking tub that’s separate from a massive glass shower, and double sinks under a wide mirror framed by a dozen lights.
“Wait till you see the bed.”
I jump at the sound of Mac’s voice. He catches me as the door closes behind us, then his mouth is on mine, his hands in my hair, my back against the wall as I drop my bag and grip his shirt just to keep myself steady.
I didn’t know how this would go, but it wasn’t exactly like this. Even though I am melting under Mac’s touch and the way he’s claimed me with just a kiss—a fucking hot as hell kiss, a kiss that is going straight from my head to between my thighs, making me feel swoony and weak.
But this isn’t my usual way of doing things. I’m usually the one in charge, the one who makes the moves, the one on top. The rooftop bar, the alleyway kiss…so far I’ve let Mac be alpha, giving him way more control than I’ve ever given anyone in my life. It’s time to turn this ship around.
I plant my feet and pivot, catching him by surprise so that it’s now his back against the wall, and I’m more in control. I bite his lip lightly, tugging at it between my teeth as I start unbuckling his pants. I like that Mac started without light conversation or any kind of mood lightening experience. But now it’s my rules.
He catches my hands in his and tears them from his body, moving so quickly that I’m surprised when I’m on my back on the bed, my hands pinned above my head, his legs straddling my hips so that I can’t move.