Page 80 of The Perfect Wrong
There’s even a small heated pool just outside on the balcony.
Barely one wall away from a California king bed that looks like someone trapped a cloud in this room.
Yes,bed.
Yes, singular.
Let the unhinged laughing commence.
And the worst part is, I’m already sporting a raging hard-on, despite being mortified when I look back at Delia.
She’s pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s fighting to breathe after a blow to the face, her cheeks so red they could join the fire department.
I say nothing, just turn around and march past the bed that must be a gift from Lucifer, shoving aside the mammoth wall of glass that opens to the balcony.
It’s not a gorgeous view. More like gazing into the soul of Lady Vegas with her sun and shadows and energetic, throbbing crowds that push through this city like a pulse.
If my head weren’t damn near popping right off and flying into orbit, I might enjoy it more.
I don’t turn around until I hear a door shut faintly behind me.
It’s empty in the bedroom again.
Looks like she’s escaped into the bathroom.
Who the fuck could blame her?
It’ll be night before you know it. Outside, everything will light up like a maze of palaces and fairy-tale wonders—everything I’ve seen in Baghdad and Damascus—except here there’s no tracer fire cutting through the air or far-off bursts of incendiary explosives to worry about.
The hell is inside this room.
Inside Delia.
Insideme.
Standing on the balcony overlooking the Strip isn’t doing shit for taming my lust.
A few long chaise chairs wait by the pool.
Another trigger where I’m forced to see myself pulling her onto my lap, naked and wet and wanting in the steaming velvet night.
When she finally comes out of the bathroom and looks at me, she’s fuming.
Ah, there’s my cue to bite the bullet and deal with this.
I wonder if she’s been coaching herself in the mirror, working up the courage to lay into me, to tell me she’ll rough it on the overstuffed couch in the main room.
“You okay?” I venture, knowing full well she’s anything but.
“I just... I can’tbelieveDad didn’t think to lock in two separate rooms.” She stamps her foot as I hand her a key card for the room. “Roommates. Bedmates. It’s like every silly rom-com ever made—”
She catches herself and stops mid-sentence as I dart her a look.
“By silly, I mean the terrible, super cheesy ones.”
Judging by the way her face reddens, I’m not sure what the hell she means.
“Princess, relax. Roughing it out in a two-thousand-dollar-a-night suite is not the apocalypse. I’m not gonna watch you shower or whatever the fuck—unless you want me to.”