Chance (The One More Night Series) (5 page)

I didn’t know—but then I knew nothing about the man other than the kindness he’d shown me earlier and the sexual heat he’d unleashed between us in the elevator.

With each step I took, I felt a burning within me that I couldn’t quell.  I wanted to feel him against me again.  I wanted his lips on mine again.  I wanted to break into a run and get to his damned suite to continue what we’d just left behind.  But I checked myself.  I kept pace with him.  I bided my time even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.

And then he stopped.

As if he could sense what I was feeling, he turned to me, and I saw in his eyes the impatience I felt in my soul.  With a swiftness that surprised me, he grabbed me by the waist and lifted me onto one of the tables.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“You ask too many questions.”

He removed the vase of peonies that was beside me, put it down on the floor, and then moved in to kiss me.  When he did, I placed my hands on his hips, and kissed him back despite the fear lacing through me.  I was the hired help.  He was the wealthy guest.  If we got caught, it was my head that would roll, not his.

“The hallway’s too long,” he said.  “Don’t you agree?  I just want a taste.”

Before I could process what he had in mind, he lowered the neckline of my dress and exposed the black, lacy bra I wore beneath it.  He unhooked the clasp in the front with practiced ease and parted the material, releasing my breasts into the cool air.

“You’re perfect,” he said.

I felt at once exposed and wildly caught up in the moment.  I looked up and down the hallway, fearful that, at any instant, a door would open, somebody would leave their room, and we’d be publicly shamed. 

But when Chance covered his mouth over one of my nipples and began to taunt it with his tongue, I started to soar again.  Instead of worrying about this, I welcomed it.  I gave into it.  I let go of my fear of getting caught, wrapped my legs around him, and allowed my head to fall back against the wall as he continued to tempt each nipple until the ache within me reached a note that sounded to me like a scream. 

His lips and his tongue became my best friends—and my worst enemies.  They weren’t just edging me toward climax—they were driving me there with each swirl of his tongue, each kiss of his lips.  When the table started to rock beneath us, I reached for his face in an effort to steady it, and met his gaze with my own.  Chance needed no coaxing.  When he kissed me, it was with abandon.

“You’re close,” he said.  “I can feel it.”

His hands were once again on my breasts, which felt heavy and swollen with lust.  I was about to tell him that, yes, I was close, when at the end of the hall, the elevator doors slid open—and everything changed.

An older woman in an elegant yellow evening gown stepped out of the elevator—but then stopped when she saw us entangled in each other’s arms.   Without missing a beat, Chance swept me off the table and lifted up the front of my dress to cover me, but he was too late—from the cold look on the woman’s face, I could tell that she’d seen my bare breasts, and that what she’d seen and what we’d been doing had repelled her.  From this distance, it could have been my mother’s own face gawking at me. 

The shame and guilt I felt took me out of the moment.

What am I doing?  What have I done?

Adrenaline shot through me.  My heart started to quicken.  Perhaps because the woman knew that she had the upper hand, she started to walk toward us with purpose, her head lifted just slightly too high.

Old money
, I thought. 
No question.

But Chance was unfazed by her presence.  He put his arm around my waist and turned me so that we faced her as she came toward us at a firm clip.  I sensed that he did so because he didn’t feel the humiliation I felt.  But how could he?  He didn’t know me or how I’d been raised.  I knew that he was trying to be supportive, and that neither of us should feel any shame for what she saw—but I did.  I was riddled with it.  In that moment, I felt like a slut, the tart my mother had always warned me against becoming, if only because of how her own sister had lived her life.

“And here I thought I was at The Plaza,” the woman said as she brushed past us.  “Not Times Square.” 

“Sorry to inconvenience you,” Chance said.

She gave us a withering look, moved to one of the doors to our right, slipped her keycard through the slot, and opened the door to her suite.  Before stepping inside, she ran her fingers through her stylish, steel-gray bob, and then, keeping her features perfectly neutral, said, “I’m calling security.  So it’s my suggestion that you either get off this floor, get out of this hotel, or get into your own room.  I won’t tolerate your behavior.  Neither will the hotel.” 

Her gaze hardened when she focused it on me.  “What a proud woman your mother must be,” she said.  “How delighted she must be with how you turned out.  If you were my daughter, I’d disown you.  But maybe your mother already has.”

And with that, she was gone.

*  *  *

“I should leave,” I said to Chance when the door clicked shut behind her.  “I can’t afford to lose my job.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to your job—I promise you that.  My room is just a few more doors down.  Let’s go to it.”

“No,” I said.  “You don’t understand.”

“It’s just down here, Abby.  Come with me.  Don’t let her get to you.”

If she wins, then my mother wins.

I followed him.

When we arrived at his suite, he unlocked the door and opened it for me, the motion causing the lights within to light on their own.  When I passed him and entered the suite, I felt his hand run down the curve of my back, which was enough to cause me to shiver because I’d just made a decision that could change the course of whether we went forward with any of this.

“I think I will have that drink,” I said.  “Something strong.  A vodka martini would be nice—if you have it.”  

He closed the door behind us, and I could sense him standing behind me, wondering how this was going to play out.

“I think we should slow down a bit,” I said.  “Neither of us is thinking straight right now.  Before I sleep with you, I want to know who I’m sleeping with.” 

When I turned to look at him, I expected to see disappointment on his face.  But I didn’t.

Instead, I saw intrigue.

CHAPTER SIX

“All right,” he said.  “A vodka martini.  Olives?”

In the faint recesses of my mind, I could hear my mother’s voice scolding me, preaching scripture at me, telling me how disappointed she was with me—only this time I shoved her aside in ways that I hadn’t before.

I’m not going to let you in, Mom.  Not this time.  You’re not going to ruin this for me.  I’m an adult.  I make my own decisions now.  You don’t have the right to judge me for them, and you sure as hell aren’t going to steal this moment away from me.  Because guess what?  I want this to happen.  I want to have sex with this man.  And I’m beyond tired of being who you want me to be.

“Three,” I said with resolve.  “And make it dirty.”

He grinned at that, and then led me into the enormous living space, which had a Steinway grand in the corner of the room and windows that overlooked Fifth Avenue. 

I focused on the views, and in the process, left my mother behind.

As he’d promised, the views were indeed spectacular, especially because so much of New York appeared to be twinkling with life right now.  When I’d arrived for work earlier that afternoon, the sun had still been out.  But now that it was dark, the city had become a dizzying, lovely display of lights.  We were too far up to hear the hum of traffic coming from below, so what I saw was almost like a photograph—one I’d likely never see again. 

Not unlike him.

“Have a seat,” he said.  “Choose your chair or sofa.  I’ll be back in a moment with our drinks.”  He started to move away from me, but then stopped.  “By the way, how dirty is dirty?”

“Filthy,” I said.

With a deep, disarming laugh that made me smile, he turned away and disappeared into another part of the suite.  I went to one of the white sofas and sat down on it.  A glass-covered coffee table separated me from the identical sofa across from me.  To my right was the wall of windows and the magnificent slice of the city they offered.  In another room, I heard liquid and ice being shaken.  

I was shaking as well, but for other reasons.

While I sat there, I looked around for telltale signs of who this man was, but as decked out and as comfortable as this suite was, another hand—a corporate hand—had designed it.  In fact, all around me was a slick sleight of hand that had succeeded in making this feel like a lived-in apartment, but it wasn’t.  It was bizarre.  While there appeared to be personal touches, there was nothing personal at all about them.  Not one thing in this space offered me a glimpse into who this man was, other than the fact that he was wealthy enough to keep this suite as his own. 

But then I already knew that.

When he returned with our drinks, I noticed that he’d removed his jacket and his tie, and that his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat.  As he came toward me, I could see a hint of the smooth, tanned chest that lay beneath, and I’d be lying if I said that the sight didn’t arouse me. 

He handed me my martini and said, “Should I sit next to you or opposite you?”

I was still unnerved by what that woman had said to me earlier.  I needed a moment to relax and talk before we proceeded.  “How about if you sit across from me for now?  So we can face each other while we talk.”

“All right,” he said in a good-humored voice while he took the sofa across from me.  “Let’s talk.  I’d actually like to know more about you, Abby.”

My first instinct was to tell him to run.  My life wasn’t that interesting.  In fact, if anything, it was a boring grind.  “Unfortunately, there isn’t much to know,” I said.

“Why do I doubt that?”

I waved my hand in the air.  “Probably for the same reason that I sense a whiff of disappointment coming off the horizon.”

He cocked his head at that.  “So let me get this straight.  You’re telling me that there’s nothing interesting about you?”

“What I’m saying is that when compared to your life, it’s only going to send you into a coma—and I don’t want to do that for a number of reasons.”

“I wonder what you know about my life…”

“Nothing really.”

“OK.  So, I hope that you haven’t already labeled me, because I haven’t labeled you.  Maybe you’ve had adventures that I haven’t had.  Maybe you’ve had all sorts of interesting things happen to you that have changed your life, or your perspective on life.  Have you?”

“Not yet, but I hope to.  It’s one of the reasons I moved to Manhattan.”

He leaned back against the sofa and lifted his glass of Scotch to his lips.  “You’re pretty hard on yourself,” he said.  “Why is that?”

I shrugged.  “There are a few reasons.  First, I come from a small town and was born to deeply religious, working-class parents who still struggle to get by.  Trust me—there isn’t anything of interest there.  Second, I’m working hard to get through grad school, which takes up most of my time when school is in session.  Third, I’m trying to make it in this city, which means working a lot, so I don’t have much of a social life.”  I motioned around me.  “And fourth, it’s unlikely that—after tonight—I’ll ever see anything like this or you again.  Like I said—dull.”

“How do you know you won’t see me again?”

“I think we both know what the rest of the night holds for us, Chance.  And how we’ll go on with our lives when it’s over.”

“I guess I didn’t get that memo.  If you know how we’ll go on with our lives when tonight is over, I’d like to know.”

“I don’t know.  Not exactly, anyway.  But I have an idea of how it will go, and it’s fine.  I accept it.  It’s just that I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“You mean sharing a drink with a stranger?”

“Not in his hotel room.  And certainly not after making out with him in an elevator that had a camera trained on us.”

“Oh, that,” he said.  “That was pretty intense, wasn’t it?  Same goes for how I took you on that table.  Do you regret any of it?”

“No.”

“So, I have to ask—how do you know how tonight will end?” 

“I just assume that we’ll go our own separate ways as if nothing happened.”

“Really?” he asked.

“How else could it go?”

“Who knows?  I guess I’m not so cynical to think that tonight hasn’t meant something to me, because it has.  Tonight, I met a fascinating, beautiful woman who caught my eye the moment I saw her, and that rarely happens because I’m usually too involved with my work.  So, as far as I’m concerned, there’s something about you that I shouldn’t ignore, because I don’t do this often.  I don’t know what will happen between us when morning comes.  Maybe we’ll go our own separate ways.  Maybe we won’t.  I live my life open to possibilities, not closed to them.”

“It’s not as if I’m obverse to them.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m just a realist.”

When I said that, he took a big swig off his Scotch and looked up at the ceiling.  “Sorry to hear that,” he said.

“I’ve kind of had to be.”

“What does that have to do with this situation?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“I guess it isn’t.  Enlighten me.”

“We’re from two different worlds.”

“And yet here we are in the same room talking with each other.  Isn’t that weird?  Those two worlds are unusually close right now.  I wonder how that happened?  Gravity?  Is that it?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“You’re rich.  I’m poor.”

“Who’s to say that you won’t be rich one day, and that I won’t be poor again?”

“Again?”

“Yes, again.  Maybe we’re just two people who happened to meet for a specific reason neither of us know about yet.”

“Now you sound like a hippie.”