Holding My Breath. AM Hartnett

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СКАЧАТЬ still see the marks of her lipstick smeared across the shaft. She clipped the compact shut and went for her lipstick.

      ‘I’m sure you could, and I’d like that very much, but no, and the clock is ticking.’

      ‘Forget about the money.’ He took two steps and pressed against her, pinning her between his body and the vanity. ‘I like you. I like you and I want to fuck you for the fun of it.’

       God, he makes it so hard, doesn’t he?

      She focused on filling in the bow shape of her mouth as he pressed his chin into her shoulder. If she did, who would tell? Nick? Hell, no. If she called down to the desk and told him to mark the suite as full for the rest of the night, he’d keep quiet and she could stay right here with Quinn until he had wasted her to nothing with that delicious body.

      As he squeezed his fingers between her legs and glided easily into her sex, she almost relented.

      Instead she squirmed enough to push him off. She didn’t look at him as she went to work on combing her fingers through her hair. ‘I can’t. I still need my job in the new year.’

      Once in the living room, she started to collect her scattered and crumpled clothes. She needed a good scrub-down, but now that she’d put the brakes on this … sweet Jesus, this sordid episode, she needed to put some space between them. A jingling sound drew her attention back to him, and she was oddly disappointed to find him drawing his slacks up his thighs.

      ‘About our arrangement …’ he said.

      Molly dragged her dress over her head and spoke through the fabric. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in giving you until the new year. After that, I don’t want to see you again.’

      She shoved her head through the neck and jumped to find him standing in front of her.

      ‘Our arrangement.’

      ‘We don’t have an arrangement.’

      He looked unconvinced, and completely gorgeous with his chest still bare and his hair all rumpled. She itched to reach up and smooth down the ruddy spikes she had made.

      Instead, she hiked her purse onto her shoulder and took a deep breath. ‘Take your time. I won’t have housekeeping up here until the morning – and don’t forget …’

      She glanced at the envelope on the sofa.

      ‘Trust me, I won’t,’ he said, but his smile said it wasn’t the money he was talking about as he shrugged into his shirt. ‘I’ll see you around, Molly.’

      She could have purred over her name lilting, liquid, off his tongue. It ran through her as she headed for the door and left her light-headed.

      ‘If you change your mind, you have my number,’ he called to her. ‘You know my working hours. Otherwise, I’m yours for a little more of that “or something”.’

      * * *

      What had long been a habit for Molly had evolved into a deliberate routine she was certain she’d feel lost without.

      Every workday she’d close and lock the door, drop her purse, kick off her shoes, then lean against the door with her eyes closed. In a series of deep breaths, she’d push the day away: the boring hours of paperwork, the bitchy guests and the gripes from the staff, the mountain of bills she’d ignore, and all the other garbage in her life. A long sigh and all of it would flake away.

      Nothing was different today. She still sealed herself in. She still let her purse fall onto the doormat and pushed her shoes off, but this time when she leaned back she lifted her gaze to the ceiling.

      Her sigh was different. It wasn’t relief or exasperation. This slow exhalation was lush and satisfied, and with her second breath she let out an airy, disbelieving laugh that shook her shoulders.

      She’d had sex with a stranger who made his living with that talented tongue and hard body.

      When she’d left work that morning, she certainly hadn’t intended to indulge in some illicit encounter in the honeymoon suite, though she wouldn’t have been the first. In fact, when she’d first started at the front desk she’d developed a camaraderie with the lothario bartender: her friends got one free round every time she passed him a key card to an empty room so he could spend his break with whoever he had been flirting with. From kitchen staff and deliverymen, to housekeepers and porters, Molly doubted there was a nook left in the hotel that hadn’t been used for the purpose of sexual congress.

      She’d always abstained from fucking at work. The fear of losing her job trumped the high of being bad. The closest she’d ever come was giving Aaron a hand job in the parking garage after a Christmas party.

      So far she’d evaded regret about what had happened with Quinn. She expected it to creep upon her as she moved through the darkness to the living room, but when she turned on the light and sank down on the sofa, nothing like it manifested.

      Out of the shadows came a haughty little figure with glaring yellow eyes. Up until today, Scot had been the only male in her life since Aaron moved out. It was a simple chieftain/servant relationship, and as far as roommates went the feline was tolerable. He sat primly in the archway where the living room met the dining room and stared. This was supposed to be her cue to get up and feed him, but with her tap against the edge of the sectional he strutted forward. Apparently the promise of a belly-rub was as good as the promise of food, maybe better.

      With the cat sprawling on her lap, Molly scratched his stomach and turned on the television, but paid no attention to the 24-hour news station. While the sensible side of her enumerated the risks of indulging with someone who sold sex, the wilder side ached at the memory of Quinn’s hot mouth on her sex, and rolled her eyes like a petulant child being scolded.

      She conjured that James Bond package he sold. She remembered him telling her he had his limits, and he didn’t need to specify that risky sex was off the menu. Like any other dealer in the illicit, Quinn kept his product pure. It wouldn’t do for one of his well-paying clients to discover she’d been left with an unpleasant souvenir of her time with him. Word would travel fast, and he’d be done.

      Scot broke her reverie with a twist off her lap and an annoyed croak. She relented and followed him to the kitchen. She couldn’t tell if she was still slippery from their time together or if this wetness rubbing against her panties was from remembering it. After filling Scot’s bowl, she delved into the fridge-freezer and pulled out a frosted bottle of vodka.

      It was fire and ice as it went down, and just what she needed. There was a time when she used to add a splash of soda and juice, but since her marriage failed and two had become one, she took her liquor neat.

      In fact, the last time she’d diluted her liquor was the same night she last had sex. It had been her anniversary, and she and Aaron had returned from an uncomfortable dinner. As he’d showered, she’d gulped down a screwdriver – her second – and resigned herself to the inevitability of sex that night. She was sure that Aaron was as unenthusiastic as she was, but when they’d got into bed together he was hard. Less than a minute of foreplay preceded sex that not even lubricant could make bearable. When it was over he had slept, and Molly took herself downstairs. Sore between her legs, her soul dried and brittle, she’d poured herself another drink and wiped away tears that squeezed out from behind her eyelids like acid.

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