Total pages in book: 183
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
That’s when I start to tremble again, for an entirely new reason I don’t understand; a wave of emotion overwhelming me. It’s not regret. It’s not fear. It’s something indescribable. I try to pull away from Cole, but he tightens his hold on me.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Cole murmurs. “It’s the endorphins you’re feeling from the spanking. It’ll pass.” He eases me back and rubs my arms. “It’ll pass.”
“Soon, I hope,” I whisper, gripping his arms.
“It will,” he promises. “Just breathe through it. It happens after the high, especially when it’s new to you. Take another deep breath.”
Inhaling and exhaling, my lashes lower with the trickle of air from my lips. Cole folds me against him again and before I know his intent, he stands up, taking me with him, and I quickly grab his neck, forced to hold on until we’re in the bathroom, and he’s setting me down on the sink. “Hang tight, sweetheart,” he says, and walks toward the toilet, tosses the condom, pulls on a pair of sweats, and then grabs the hotel robe from a hook and wraps it around me, holding onto the lapels. “Better now?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, realizing now that I’m no longer shaking. “Yes. It’s passing. I’m better.”
“Good.”
He gives me an inquiring look, his blue eyes probing but gentle. “Did you like it?”
This is where I should feel awkward about the question, about being spanked by this man, but somehow, I just—don’t. “Yes. I did. I’m surprised that I did.”
“I’m not,” he says, “or I wouldn’t have suggested it.”
“Why aren’t you surprised?”
“Because the danger of never letting go is you lose yourself. When you lose yourself, you lose what you’re after, why you’re doing what you’re doing. Been there, done that.”
I want to ask more. I want to understand. I want to know why he saw this in me, but I’m treading on tomorrow territory and he doesn’t give me a chance anyway. His hands come down on my waist and he sets me on the floor in front of him, tying the belt around the robe for me. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry. Let’s order room service.”
I want to say yes. Why does this man make me want to say yes to everything?
“This is where I’m supposed to leave.”
“Says who?” he asks.
“Me. I said—”
“One night,” he says, “not two hours. Which means our one night is not over. I leave tomorrow morning. What do you have to lose by staying?”
What do I have to lose?
Myself, I think.
My career.
My independence.
“We had one condom,” I point out.
“And as you can tell, I can be creative.” His lips curve. “When I’m well fed. Stay, Lori. I want you to stay.” His voice is low, rough, compelling. “Forget what you planned to do. Do what we both want you to do. Stay with me.”
I should say no, but I don’t. “Yes,” I say, because nothing has changed. He might kiss like trouble, but this is one night and trouble can’t touch me tomorrow.
Chapter nine
Lori
Cole’s response to my agreement to stay longer is to kiss me hard and fast, his lips firm and warm. “Good,” he says. “Because I’m not done with you. Not even close.” Heat rushes through me with that promise and he laces his fingers with mine. “Come on. Let’s order that food.” He turns and holds onto my hand, almost as if he’s afraid I’ll run for the door, and the truth is, it feels good to have someone hold onto me, to want me. The kind of feelings I can’t afford, not beyond tonight, but I can’t help but revel in them here, now, just a little longer.
He guides me to the sitting area and we settle on the couch, no space between us. He keeps me close, our legs aligned, and when he opens a drawer on the coffee table and removes a menu, he sets it on our joined legs, skipping to a photo. “I highly recommend the lasagna,” he says, pointing to what looks like two thousand calories of perfection, while I think he’s about double that or more. “The chef trained in Italy,” he continues, “and he does Italy better than Italy and that’s hard to do.”
“You’ve been here often if you’ve evaluated the chef’s resume.”
He makes a frustrated sound. “Too often,” he says. “I’m ready to be out of here.”
He’s ready to be out of here. He’s ready to be home. Tonight is tonight. It’s what I want. It’s right for me and right for him but I still find myself wanting to ask: Where is home? Why is he here? A case? Family? What?
His finger caressing my cheek brings my attention back to him. “But,” he adds, “an excellent chef makes the stay here more bearable.” He flips the menu to another page. “The pizza is authentic Italian as well and excellent.”