Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“I guess. Although he wouldn’t be the first guy to cheat.”
We’re interrupted by a call. It’s someone locked out of their room.
“I’ll take them the new key,” I say, as Magda puts down the phone. “I have a truly horrific sense of direction, so the more often I can find an excuse to wander the corridors and figure out the layout, the better.”
Magda makes the key, using the exact same system as the one we have at The Rookery, and after showing someone where the bar was and introducing them to our head barman, I head off. I decide to take the stairs to the third floor, which is actually the second floor, but Americans call the ground floor the first floor, which does nothing to help my inability to get the layout of this place. My glutes need the attention of the stairs and it all adds to my understanding of the building.
When I come out on the second-slash-third floor, the unmistakable noises of people having sex catches my attention, and my entire body flushes with heat.
Even though people are clearly behind closed doors, there’s something about hearing another woman groan that makes me feel like I shouldn’t be here. But I have a key to deliver. I glance both ways, and given I can’t decide which way I should go, I decide to head away from the noises of the woman approaching orgasm. She needs her privacy—although I’m not sure privacy and discretion are top of her priority list right now.
As I follow the numbers of the doors, it’s clear I’m going in the wrong direction, so I double back. With each step I come closer and closer to the room where the couple are having sex. I’m not sure why, but I try not to make a sound. It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong, but I would hate them to think I was out here listening. I mean, I can’t help but hear them, but it’s not on purpose.
The sounds get louder and louder. It’s just her I can hear. She’s moaning incoherently, then begging for more. Furniture knocks against walls, bare flesh slaps against flesh.
Eventually, I find myself in front of the door that stands between me and the couple inside having sex. I look up at the number plate. Room 325.
I knew it before I looked.
It’s Deacon Black’s room.
The hot but rude Brit who would have left me with first-degree burns had he been a centimeter closer.
It’s him making Ms. Gordon sound like she’s half crazed and having the best sex ever.
It’s him, the man who glared at me, who knows how to make a woman forget everything but what he’s doing to her.
It’s him.
Images of Deacon Black naked, walking toward me, fill my brain and I try to steady my breathing. I need to move. I’m supposed to be delivering a key, not listening to a woman having the night of her life.
It’s just that the woman inside sounds so…lost in Deacon. I don’t think I’ve ever felt lost in a man. Even though for years and years, I thought I was in love with Ryder, Darcy’s brother, I never felt lost in him. We never had sex, but I can’t imagine myself ever feeling about any man the way Ms. Gordon is feeling right now. I bet she wouldn’t care if this building went up in flames.
The slam of a door farther up the corridor snaps me back to the moment, and I manage to peel myself away from my fantasies of Deacon Black and focus on the fact that a guest is locked out of their room.
When the guest in room 364 is safely in their room, I stop to chat to the head of housekeeping, who is checking turndowns and then head back to reception.
I’m right by the lift bank. It would be easy to avoid room 325 completely.
But I don’t.
Somehow, I can’t. I don’t want to.
As I near the room, I can’t hear anything. I hold my breath for a few seconds, to see if I can hear anything, but there’s nothing.
I slow as I approach the room—and then suddenly the door opens and my stomach flips over.
Oh my god.
Did they hear me approaching?
I don’t know what to do. Should I acknowledge whoever’s at the door? Or walk by and ignore them?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ms. Gordon at the threshold of the door, her jacket over her arm.
I don’t know why I do it. I should just keep on walking, keep looking straight ahead, keep my stride purposeful.
Instead, I turn my head. For some reason, I have to see if he’s there too. I don’t know why, it’s like I’ve lost control of my decision-making and something biological, something innate, is seeking out this man.