K. Bromberg - Bend

“I saw your hobble across the casino. It caught my eye. I wandered out, wanted to make sure a man didn’t take advantage of your ill state.”

“By what? Swooping to my rescue with ridiculously comfortable slippers?”

If possible, his grin widened. “Yes. You should probably avoid me from this point forward.”

Having no intelligent response, I pretend to distract myself from the conversation, working the soft cotton over my injured feet and sighing with relief when they are on. “Where did you get these?”

He tilts his head to the right. “The store next door. They carry matching robes if you’d like to complete the look.”

I laugh. “No, I’m good.”

“I would have offered to carry you, but it didn’t seem appropriate. When I saw that you had sat down … How far do you have to go?”

“My room.” I wave a hand dismissively in the direction of our room. “Coral Towers.”

He frowns. “A bit of a hike.”

“It was.” I wiggle my toes. “A lot better now. Please sit down.” I gesture to the seat next to me. Pull open my purse and dig through the chips there, seeing him, out of my peripheral, remain standing. Okay. I collect all of the green chips I can find. Six total. Sixty bucks worth. I close my purse and hold out the handful, watching Brett eye my closed fist. “Go on, open your hand,” I urge.

He does, wincing when I drop the chips into his palm. He frowns, rolling them over in his palm and holding them out to me.

“They’re for the slippers.” I clasp the top flap of my purse, ignoring the insistent press of his fist in my personal space. I bat off his hand. “Take it.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“I don’t want your charity. Please.”

“It’s not charity.” Stubbornness is entering his voice, and I fight the urge to smile.

“It’s giving me something for nothing … that’s charity.”

“I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”

I sniff in a manner that would, most certainly, make my mother roll over in her grave. “For five minutes? Please.”

“Then let me accompany you the rest of the way to your room. Just to make sure you arrive safely.”

I sigh. A big dramatic one—one that gives no hint to the fact that I haven’t been laid in almost two years, haven’t been on a date in almost half that time, and have never looked into a face as gorgeous as this man’s. “Just to the door?”

His mouth twitches. “Just to the door. Then you will have properly compensated me for the slippers and will be forced to accept your hard-earned chips back.”

“They weren’t that hard-earned,” I grumble, heaving to my feet, suddenly aware at the height at which my yep-definitely-too-old-to-wear-this minidress has risen. I work it back down, looking up a moment too early and catching his eyes on my legs. My hands freeze, his eyes looking up and catching my own. He should brush it off, look away, but instead he holds my gaze and grins, a slow, sexy smile that grabs ahold of my arousal lever and pushes that baby all the way up. Damn. This man and his fuzzy slippers, his bad boy smile and roaring confidence … I don’t belong anywhere within miles of this man. My blistered feet and I are way too vulnerable for the train wreck to which we are headed. Because I know what will happen when we get through the long walk to my room. All he will have to do is tilt his head, grin that naughty smile, and my ass will tumble over itself in a haste to do anything and everything more that he wants.

I reach up and accept his outstretched hand. He smiles down at me, our heights thrown off by my lack of heels. Shit, my heels. I crouch, scooping up my heels, my eyes suddenly friendly to their sparkling straps, their impossible heights that I was naïve to think I could handle. I grip his hand and shuffle forward, the soft pat of the slippers quiet on the tile floor.

“Feel free to lean on me,” he says, looking down on me with a smile. “And if you need to be carried …”

“I’ll be fine,” I grin. “Promise.”

He tugs gently, and we move, through the shops, my hand foreign in another hand, and I release his arm and grip his bicep instead, marveling at the strength, fighting the urge to squeeze and test the hard muscle.

Feet, don’t fail me now.

“Are you here alone?”

I glance over, our hands separating eight paces back, when the awkward contact had become forced. “No. There are six of us. Bachelorette party.”

I may be mistaken, but I feel as if he stumbles slightly, a hitch in his step. “Yours?”

The three martinis at dinner make that question much more humorous than it should be, and I giggle. “Me? No.”

“A boyfriend?” We reach the lobby, and he reaches out, placing a firm hand on my arm, making sure I make the journey down the short bank of steps without incident.

I shake my head. “No.” I look over. “Is there a Mrs. Brett?”

He chews on his bottom lip as he meets my eyes, the first bit of indecision that I’ve seen on his face. And damn, it is a hot look. He should rock indecision more. The bite of white teeth combined with a tight jaw, rough stubble paired with intense eyes. “I wouldn’t be escorting you if I was attached.”

I look away from his face, breaking the connection before I tackle him to the ground and have my Southern way with him. We reach the elevators and stop, his finger pressing the button.

Silence. Awkward silence. I shift in the slippers, trying to look anywhere but in his general direction. I should be better at this. I’m thirty-two for God’s sake. I’m not a fifteen year old girl with her date to the prom. “Are you here on business?”

He grins, his head shaking, his hand gesturing for me to go ahead when the elevator doors open. “No. I’m with a few friends. Blowing off some steam.”

I press the button for the eighth floor, leaning back against the wall, putting as much distance between us as possible. He takes my lead, settling against the opposite wall, his stance relaxed, the lines of his dress shirt falling perfectly over dark jeans. I raise my eyebrows, my mouth curving into a smile. “Blowing off some steam?”

Our conversation is interrupted, a hand shooting in and catching the closing doors, the action stalling and then reversing their close. Three men step on. Not really men. What appear to be twenty year old boys, the smell of alcohol pressing into the car with them, their glassy eyes and curses preceding their entry. I see Brett’s eyes darken, the space between us suddenly full.

“What floor?” I ask the question when the doors close and their attention hasn’t moved, no button pressed, the elevator already starting an ascent.

Mistake. Their eyes move as one, locking on me, and the man closest to me stumbles, moving into my comfort zone. “What floor are you going to?” he slurs, the question causing encouraging laughter from his friends, one who casts a quick look in Brett’s direction.

“Leave her alone.” The tightness in Brett’s voice surprises me, and I look up to his face, caught off guard by the hard line of his jaw, the heat in his stare, his eyes on the men and not on mine. I want to reassure him, not that we are close enough that I would assume his protection. But it seems, from the stiffness of his body, his push off the wall and onto the balls of his feet, the iron in his tone, that he is ready to fight, to defend, to do all the unnecessary things that this bevy of boys is not looking for.

The doors slide open, and I squeeze through the men, their steps slow to move, Brett’s arm knocking them back, grumbled curses following the action, a cowardly shout of rebellion sent out right as the doors once again close. We stand in the empty landing.

“Are you okay?” His eyes are dark, face tight. I glance down and see his fists clenched.

I laugh, press a light hand on his chest. “I’m fine. They were drunk. It would have been fine.”

He grips my forearms, walks me three steps backward, until I am against the wall, and he is close enough to kiss, his face tilted down to me. “Don’t assume that. Never assume that.”

Then he closes the gap, his fingers tightening on my arms, squeezing so tightly there is almost pain, his mouth possessive and rough at first contact but melting instantly, his hands loosening, running up my forearms until they reach my shoulders, then past that to cup my face. A sound comes from me, something between a sigh and a moan, and he catches it on his tongue, our mouths molding into a fire of hot debate, the fight of our tongues one that turns into a dance of seduction—him pushing, me pulling, the press of his body getting tighter and tighter to mine, until I am on my toes, and the weight of him is pressing me against the wall. In a moment of pause, our mouths taking a readjusting period, I speak, my voice gasping, my senses overwhelmed, the only thing I know is that I want him too much to think straight, too much to make a coherent decision right now. “Wait.” I place a hand on his chest, and he immediately drags his mouth off mine, his eyes fierce, tight to mine, as he takes his own ragged breath of air.

“I’m sorry. I’m not used to … restraint.” His hands suddenly release their grip on my hair, our connection broken, and I sink to my heels, my mouth raw, my body throbbing … wanting … more. He’s not used to restraint? I’m not used to touch, to the taste of another’s mouth. It’s been years since I’ve had a cock in my mouth, years since I’ve felt a man’s skin beneath my touch, much less his hands on my body. I need to step away from this man. I need to get in my room, away from his cocky smile, his eyes that eat my soul, his hands that burn like possessive fire across my skin. I can’t control myself in his presence, won’t be able to keep myself from yanking out his cock, pulling up my dress, and spreading my legs wider than the Panama Canal.

He takes another step back, rubs his mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

I’m not. I blush. “It’s fine. I didn’t exactly stop you.” I push off the wall, trusting my feet to hold me. I must move away. I want him so badly. What am I doing? My new slippers move me silently forward. Beside me, his hands disappear inside his pockets, his head cast down. I stop in front of my room, take a steadying breath, and turn to him. “This is it. Thank you.”

His right hand is outstretched, fist closed. I stare at it in confusion before I realize what he’s doing. I give him an exasperated smile and hold my hands out together, cupped beneath his fist, the chips falling into my palms with a dull clink. “I wanted to pay you for the slippers.”

He chews on his lip again, the move an apparent habit, and stares at me as if sorting out something in his mind. Silence draws out, thickness in the air between us. God, I want to suck on that lip. Grab it between my teeth and suck. I fight the urge to squirm, the need between my legs crawling up my stomach and dragging on my breasts with its want.

He finally speaks, breaking our eye contact as he looks away. “I don’t want your money. It was my pleasure.”

I feel ridiculous, both of my hands closed around the chips. Like I am a Chinese doll ready to bow in respect. He doesn’t seem pushy about coming in, my fears of wanton sluthood unnecessary given his six-foot proximity from my body. I shoulder my purse open and dump the chips, fishing out my room key. I look down at my feet. “Want the slippers? You could run back down. Do this whole bit again on a new victim of poor fashion decisions.”

“Nah.” He leans one hand against the wall, the action bringing him a foot closer, still a safe distance away. “I’ll end the night while I’m up.” He pushes off the wall, holds out his hand, that gorgeous mouth stretching into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Riley.”

“Back ‘atcha Brett.” I shake his hand, releasing it quickly. Either I am imagining it, and am in serious danger of embarrassing the hell outta myself, or we are one slip away from headboard-banging a hole through to the next room.

I insert the key, push down the handle, and step in, giving him a small wave before gently shutting the door. It clicks, and I stare at the white wood. Somewhere, in the region between my legs, my sex drive sobs in despair. Okay, this is fine. I made it safely to the room, am now alone. Alone. No hot hands ripping at my clothes, his mouth hungry on my neck, his cock pressing against my skin before pushing deep and hard where I am in desperate need of it. Fuck. Somewhere, my brain bumps around and tries to find the place of reason where my decision is a good one. Surely this is the right move. I have retained my composure. I did not become that girl, the one who allowed horny desire to put her in harm’s way. Despite that man’s panty-dropping looks, chivalrous actions, and mypantiesarestillwet kissing ability, I don’t know him, he is a stranger. This is not Macon, Georgia. I do not know his parents, did not grow up sitting next to him on sticky bus seats. I can’t invite him in. Shouldn’t. Probably won’t. I rise to my tiptoes and look through the peephole.