Hotel Indigo (19 page)

“If you open your eyes, I’ll fuck you.”

My pussy throbs at his words. I feel something behind me, hot and hard brushing my ass. I want that thing inside me. I
need
it, with all this fear riling me up. I crave it more than anything.
 

I lie. “My eyes are open.”

“I can’t see your eyes from back here, so tell me: how many green lights do you see near the horizon?”
 

“Three?”
 

“Open your eyes like a good girl, Lucy, and I’ll put my cock inside you.”
 

I open my eyes — no faster than the click of a camera’s shutter, and then they’re closed.
 

“Five green lights,” I say, breathless.
 

And I feel the tip of his hot cock push against my pussy, then slip an inch inside. I try to push back against him, but Marco holds me in place.
 

“And what color is the house straight ahead, just in the valley? The big one?”
 

Shit. I didn’t see any house.

“Tell me and you can have another inch.”
 

“I want it all, Marco.
Please.”
 

“You’re not in charge, Lucy. For your own good, I’m making the rules.”
 

My eyes open again, just for a second. “White.”
 

Marco fucks me one more inch. “How many cars in the parking lot to our right?”
 

My eyes open. They close. “One.”
 

And Marco buries himself in my pussy, all the way.

His hands come up under my shirt. I’m not wearing a bra, so he cups my tits in his big, strong palms.
 

“Tell me what you see, and I’ll keep fucking you.”
 

Steeling myself, I open my eyes. “Trees.”
 

“Too easy. You’re guessing.”
 

“There’s one that looks like a hand.”
 

Marco pulls back, slowly. The ridge under his cock’s head rolls along my insides as I grip him tightly, and I gasp.
 

“And there’s a mansion. With a giant wrap-around porch.”
 

“Very good. Keep going.”
 

“The hills make the shape of a low, rounded W. There’s another water tower off to the left.”
 

Marco thrusts in and out, in and out. His breath is changing, quickly losing control.

“There’s a Wal-Mart. A Taco Bell. I can see the expressway there.” I actually raise one hand from the railing to point; that’s how eager I am to please him.
 

I wobble, terrified all over, my entire body on high alert. But with Marco fucking me, the fear is something else. My nipples harden in fear. My pussy grips him in fear. I get wetter in fear. And it becomes hard to keep speaking, because I might be coming, because of the fear.
 

“I see Old Town and Cherry Hill. And … and …”
 

Something has changed. I’m watching the landscape, desperately picking out landmarks to report back, so Marco will keep going.
 

But now I’m breathless, unable to speak for a whole new reason:
 

It’s beautiful, the town spread out beneath us like a galaxy of multicolored light.
 

Marco moves faster behind me, his breath racing. And when I come, my eyes close again, but only to see what’s inside, not because I’m avoiding what’s out. My pussy holds him tight, sending wave after wave of pleasure rolling up my spine. My body tingles, and I take both hands off the railing, reach back with both hands to pull Marco forward as he slams into me with his final thrusts.

When it’s over, Marco pulls out and sits on the catwalk, slumped with his back against the water tower. I sit beside him, my back also pressed against the cool metal. My eyes are open.
 

Together, sitting on the deck, we look out across the town.
 

“No,” I tell him. “Let’s stay here for a while and enjoy the view.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

M
ARCO

T
HE
NEXT
DAY
IS
S
UNDAY
, which just so happens to be the one day both God and I get off work. But I go in to the Indigo anyway, and as I cross the lobby and my eyes find Booth’s office, I’m somehow certain that Thomas will drag me in to do some of the massages I flaked out on yesterday. There’s no way all of my clients just accepted massages from Rainfall. She isn’t a guy, and wouldn’t get them tingling in the same way.
 

A preemptive strike is warranted. So I knock on Booth’s door and stick my head in before he has a chance to answer.
 

“Marco,” he says. “I’ve been looking for you.”
 

“I figured. You want an update on Lucy White.”
 

His brow wrinkles. That’s not what he was looking for, but the topic definitely interests him.
 

“It’s going well. The special treatment you asked me to give her, I mean.”
 

“Oh.” He shuffles papers. “Well, that’s good.”
 

“I thought I might come in on my day off to keep things going. You don’t mind if I hang out around the pool, do you? You know, to keep Miss White happy?”
 

Booth looks baffled, and somehow flustered. I’m more certain than ever that he was about to insist that I work in my cabana, but I’ve turned the tables. From where he’s standing, I’ve just volunteered to give up my day off so I can attend to the Miss White issue that matters so much to him — after spending my entire afternoon and evening doing the same. It’ll strike him as selfless, and right up the alley of what matters most to the man.
 

Last time Booth brought this up, I bitched and moaned about his stupid Lucy White project. He’ll think I’m doing this out of duty, because he insisted, and that he’d be stupid to make me give massages to the Indigo’s Colleen Blackwoods rather than keeping my eyes on the Grand Prize.
 

“Oh. No. Of course not.”
 

I don’t say goodbye, thank you, or anything else. I duck out, savoring Booth’s bewildered expression.
 

But halfway down the main hallway, I start to wonder if I should request extra pay. Because really, I
did
start all of this on his orders. And I
am
“working” on my Sunday. Lucy intrigues me and lights my body on fire, but I
could
just pop in for a nooner. It’d be a favor to Lucy — she doesn’t want to get up early. She has a vacation to enjoy, and my cock inside her is only part of it.
 

But what the hell. I’m bored. If Lucy’s bored too, maybe we can hang out for a while before fucking. It’ll make the sex that much better.
 

There’s a fractional second — no more than a blip of rebellious chemicals in my brain — where I wonder if this already something more than sex. I dreamed about Lucy last night, and it wasn’t illicit. We were on the water tower again, talking. I told her about Karen and how we almost got married, then about how Karen broke it off for reasons I never fully understood. I confessed to the year of darkness that followed.
 

And that was the dream: me and Lucy, sitting against the water tower, talking about ourselves and our respective futures.
 

The moment passes and I’m stepping into the elevator. A hand sneaks between the doors just before they close, and they pop back open. A very attractive brunette in her twenties enters the car, stabs a button, and looks my way. Her gaze lingers a bit too long.
 

“Third floor, huh?” she says.
 

“Excuse me?”
 

The woman points at the panel. Lucy’s floor is private, and requires a key to access. I snatched the master to push that button.
 

“Are you some sort of a high roller?”
 

“I’m visiting someone.” I return my eyes to the front.
 

But the woman keeps flicking her gaze toward me, as if hoping I’ll notice. “You know,
I
wanted to book the Emperor Suite.”
 

“You don’t say.”
 

She sighs. “But it was already taken, and this was a last-minute trip. I should have planned ahead.”
 

She frowns. Her eyes sparkle. She’s gorgeous and knows it. Her clothes are couture. She has a perfectly toned body and ably displays it without flaunting.
 

When I don’t reply, she whispers, “I heard Caspian White’s sister is staying there.”
 

“Hmm.”
 

“Is that who you’re going to see?”
 

I don’t want to tell her. I’m not even sure, for privacy reasons, if I’m
allowed
to. But she’s turned on all her weapons and keeps touching me a little, batting her lashes, demurring in a way that I have to admit is definitely sexy.
 

“It is, isn’t it?” She nudges me. “Are you a …
friend
of hers?”
 

“I guess you could say that.”
 

“Score for you then, huh?” She looks me over, then says, “Do you know
how much money
that family has?” She emphasizes
how much money
in such a way that her meaning is clear. She’s not insulting me, but I’m still apparently the gold digger in this imagined scenario, and I’ve landed a whale.
 

I must look the part, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, several days unshaven. She must see a piece of rich-girl man-candy … which right there proves she doesn’t know the quiet and vulnerable Lucy that I do.
 

The elevator hasn’t moved. I push a button to start it. “It’s not like that. I’m a masseur.”
 

She must think it’s bullshit, because I don’t have any gear. She’s practically winking. “I see.”
 

“I am. Ask up front. My name is Marco.”

She looks me over again. Maybe I’m a masseur, but I’m obviously not headed to the private floor for a massage. I’m not in my hotel shirt and shorts, and I’ve got nothing to work with, unless
massage
takes on a less formal definition — which seems to be what’s in this woman’s head.
 

She extends her hand, leans forward just a hair, little enough that it might be an accident. But her top is loose and I can see her breasts more than I should. I’m sure she’s doing it on purpose.
 

“Marco,”
she says, my name like dessert on her tongue. “I
will
ask. I could use a massage.” She extends a hand. “I’m Jill.”
 

That’s when it hits me — why she looks so familiar.
Jill Wyland.
She’s a model. A lingerie model, if I remember right.
 

The elevator dings. Jill steps out, looking me over from head to toe in a way that’s not remotely apologetic. “Maybe after you’re finished visiting the fabulous Miss White, I can get you to come and visit me.” A tiny smile. “For a massage, I mean.”
 

The doors close before I can tell her that I conduct all massages down in my cabana by the pool. But maybe that’s not right — Lucy got hers in the room, because she’s a VIP.

Jill Wyland.
 

Just the kind of guest, I’m sure, that Thomas Booth will insist I do anything to please.