Flame (Fire on the Mountain #2) (4 page)

Yeah, I should probably be concerned about that . . . but I’m not. Instead, the vision of Mr. Button Fly bending me over the a table, hiking my yellow sundress up around my waist, and plunging his hard cock deep inside me flickers in my brain, causing me to clench my thighs together and squirm uncomfortably in my seat.

In fact, I’m pretty sure I heard him think those
exact
thoughts when we were being introduced, almost as if our brainwaves were tuned in to the same radio frequency. Like some unrealistic connection from one of those ridiculous romance novels Grams is always trying to get me to read. I must
really
need to get laid. All this abstinence is fucking with my head.

Finally, Rory climbs into his two-door black coupe and pulls out of the parking lot, prompting me to do the same. If he’d have taken one more damn minute, there’s a good chance I would’ve started masturbating right here in the driver’s seat, desperately needing to take off some of the heat that the arrogant, dark-haired hottie inside the restaurant sparked inside me. An act that would be questionable at best on the list of acceptable, dignified behaviors.

Damn James Levi. Within a half-hour of meeting him, he’s already got me itching to break the rules, which sets off all kinds of warning bells in my head. It’ll probably be in my best interest to steer clear of him at the wedding on Saturday.

But who am I kidding?

From the plush crimson and cream draperies and linens to the intricate, hand-carved wood furnishings, to the majestic, eye-catching three-story fireplace, the opulent lobby of Victoria Pointe Lodge reeks of greed and gluttony. Women dressed in the season’s latest Boho chic show off their surgically enhanced cleavage and collagen-filled lips, while lounging around with cosmos. Their practiced resting-bitch-faces track my movement across the floor and disdain oozes from their pores.

The men, on the other hand, stand around making small talk with one another about sports and politics, as they lazily sip bourbon that most likely costs more than a month’s rent on my apartment. Each and every one of them takes their turn undressing me with their eyes, all fantasizing about what I’d look like without this dress and spread eagle for them. Most of them don’t bother to hide their lustful perusal.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t get a kick out of this.

Knowing I could get every one of these snobby bitches’ men to cheat on them in a heartbeat is my way of telling them all to
fuck off
while they silently rip me apart from head to toe, starting with my untamed, windblown hair and ending down at my Target sandals. Of course, I would never act on it; married dudes aren’t my thing. But knowing I have that power over them shields my ego from their judgmental, icy glares.

At this perfect portrayal of elitism at its best, a sense of pride in my family’s simple and subdued, holistic, mountainside resort surges through me. Despite the tremendous success my parents have had with Fire on the Mountain, especially in the last several years with the increase of tourism due to the legalization of marijuana, they manage to keep the property modest yet well-appointed, and themselves humble.

“How did you get a room here?” I whisper to Rory as we wait to check in. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment because I do . . . I totally do. However, I’m also aware he lives on a bartender’s budget and probably doesn’t have the money to burn on a place like this just so we can get our rocks off without listening to Crew and Hudson do the same. It’s not like he needs to impress me out of my panties.

He leans over and brushes a kiss across my cheek. “Don’t worry, Kota. I recently made a connection here, and I thought you’d enjoy the Jacuzzi suite after stressing over finals the past couple of weeks. Just ignore all the hoity-toity assholes who think their shit doesn’t stink.”

I grab his hand and intertwine our fingers, my wide smile brimming with appreciation. His thoughtfulness proves what I already knew about him: Rory Tanner is one of the good guys. If only I was interested in a serious relationship, he’d be at the top of my list of candidates.

But I’m not.

And neither is he.

So for now, I’m content with simply fucking one of the good guys . . . ’cause his
good
becomes the best kind of
bad
when his clothes are stripped away.

“Thank you,” I murmur as we step up to the reservations desk, and before releasing my hand to sign the paperwork, he gives it a quick squeeze and replies, “My pleasure.”

Minutes later, we stride across the marble floor toward the elevator bank with nearly every eye in the room on us, all of them wondering what a couple of young punks like us have planned in a place like this. As we wait for the next car to arrive, I can’t help but give them a small preview of what I have planned once we’re in our fifth-floor room. Pressing my body flush against Rory’s side, I lift up on my toes and begin to trail kisses across his jawline as I paw at his plaid button-down shirt with one hand and the other brushes over the crotch of his cargo shorts.

Gasps from the female side of the lobby can be heard clear as day, as well as longing groans from the men, both of which fuel my inappropriate public display of affection more. Sucking and nipping on the lobe of his ear, I continue to stroke my hand up and down his swelling cock, making no attempt to hide what I’m doing.

“You’re being extra naughty today,” Rory murmurs gruffly as his arms coil around my waist, holding me close to him.

“The viewing gallery wanted a show, so I’m giving it to them,” I whisper, not stopping my ministrations. “Plus, I’m really fucking horny.”

Shaking his head, a chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against my own. “I’m not sure the
viewing gallery
can handle one of your shows. You’re going to make that poor grandpa at the bar have a heart attack.”

“Grandpa will be fine. All he needs is—”

The ding of the elevator cuts my thought short, and before I can say or
do
anything else, Rory grabs my hand and drags me into the empty lift. His mouth is on mine the second the mirrored doors come together, separating us from the group of high-brow voyeurs and neither of us attempt to come up for air until we’re stopped at our destination.

Rushing to our room, our heavy breaths the only sound in the narrow hallway, I quickly forget about everything but the raw ache between my legs and the one thing that can soothe it. Rory hastily slides the key card through the lock, and the second the green light flashes, he throws open the door and we collapse inside.

Articles of clothing fly through the air before the lock clicks shut behind us. With his eyes clouded with desperation and pure hunger, he tosses me on the bed on my stomach then positions himself on his knees between my spread thighs. Eight weeks is a long fucking time to go without sex, and I’m willing to bet it’s been just as long for him.

Grabbing my hips, he pulls my ass up into the air so that it’s perfectly aligned with his steeled shaft. As I watch him roll a condom on from over my shoulder, I prepare myself for a rough, demanding fucking. Exactly like I like it.

No words are exchanged as he enters me, nor is eye contact made. Burying my face in the mattress, I grip the sheets and brace myself as he thrusts into me over and over again, his hips beating a staccato rhythm against my ass. I close my eyes and focus on the overwhelming pleasure building fast and furiously in my core; however, the only image that appears behind my tightly shut lids involves the cocky-mouthed, drop-dead gorgeous guy from Ember earlier this evening. The more I think about him, the clearer the indecent vision becomes, the closer I get to my release, until I’m soaring in my orgasmic high thinking only of faded Levi jeans and thick chestnut hair I’d like to bury my fingers in.

Rory finds his climax with a muffled yell, and once we’ve both recuperated, round two ensues, followed by three and four, each time feeling more and more impersonal. The bed, the Jacuzzi tub, and the chaise lounge all see plenty of action until physical exhaustion takes over. The last thing I remember as I struggle to keep my eyelids open is Rory’s phone ringing and his muffled voice as he accepts the call.

I’m not sure if it’s the knock at the door or the sound of a male voice calling out, “Room service” that disturbs my exceptionally peaceful sleep, but either way, the first thing I realize when I wake up stark naked, tangled in the luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets, is that I’m alone. Strangely, Rory and all his stuff are gone. He’s never been one to bolt in the middle of the night, usually sticking around for a morning shower romp prior to going our separate ways, but before I can replay the events of last night in my mind to figure out what happened, the rapping on the door returns.

“Miss Shavell, room service, ma’am,” the hotel attendant repeats, a bit louder this time.

“One minute,” I call back as I scramble out of bed and snag my dress from yesterday off the floor then slip it over my head.

Hurrying to let him in, the amused expression that flashes across his face when he sees me says everything—I look like a girl who was fucked six ways from Sunday. Glancing down, I notice the dress I just threw on is indeed inside out, and I’m sure my out-of-control bed head and smudged mascara only helps to complete the look.

Refusing to allow him to fluster me, I smile brightly and motion him into the suite. “I wasn’t aware I ordered room service,” I remark as he carries the tray in and sets it on the dinette table next to the bed.

“No, ma’am. Mr. Tanner ordered it for you before he left early this morning. There’s also a note from him on the tray. He wanted me to express his apologies for leaving you alone,” the middle-aged, balding man explains, his gaze lingering on my braless tits that are barely concealed by the thin yellow fabric.

Never one to back away from an opportunity to tease, I gather my hair in one hand and twist it up into a knot on top of my head, revealing even more of my cleavage to him. In my sweetest, most demure voice, I reply, “Awww, well, thank you so much for delivering the message.” Then, lifting the silver dome covering the food with my other hand, I pick up a piece of sausage and raise it to my mouth. “And for the meat,” I add before sinking my teeth into the juicy link.

His Adam’s apple bobs wildly as he swallows hard, unsure of what to say or do next. Shuffling his feet backward toward the door, his nervous gaze drops to the ground and he begins to stutter, “Y-y-yes, ma’am, Miss Shavell. P-please stay as long, um . . . as long as you’d like. Mr. Tanner has taken care of everything.”

Arching an eyebrow, I take another bite, well aware the grease from the sausage is dribbling down my bottom lip, past my chin, and dripping onto my chest. “Yes, Mr. Tanner is quite good at taking care of
everything
. More men should be like him.” I pause to read his nametag, then add, “Don’t you think so,
Kurt?”

“Absolutely.” Another hard swallow as he shoots his hand out behind him to reach for the silver knob. “If you need anything else, please ring the front desk, Ms. Shavell.”

Then, with a quick twist of his wrist and an abrupt about-face, he’s gone. And I erupt into a fit of giggles as I grab the handwritten note from Rory off the tray.