The Hooker and the Hermit
Page 41

Also revealed was a steeping teapot and glass-topped tea box with loose-leaf teas; I had my choice of everything from prosaic peppermint to exotic oolong. And last, but certainly not least, he lifted the top off a platter of delicate petit fours, three of which were miniature éclairs.
My mouth was watering.
I felt like I was in one of those rags to riches movies from the 1960s and ’70s, where the insignificant orphan is suddenly faced with everything she ever wanted—namely, lots of beautiful little desserts.
When the waiter was finished announcing my lunch, he made a short bow, asked if I needed anything further, and then—when I shook my head—left me to my food.
I stared at the lot of it, not sure where to start. My stomach rumbled in protest at my indecision.
I’d just decided to begin with the soup when Patricia re-emerged from the bathroom and strolled toward me with smart steps. “I’ve taken the liberty of adding rose and lavender essential oils to your bath.” She stopped at the edge of my table and began spooning peppermint tea into the steeper. “Please don’t hesitate to call upon me during your stay, Ms. Catrel. Our team’s sole purpose is your comfort while you are here with us. Since you’re traveling without your own team, please think of me as your personal secretary.”
“Uh, I have no…team.”
“That’s no matter.” Patricia gave me a warm smile and a little nod. She then turned and exited through the bedroom door, calling as she left, “I shall return in a half hour to unpack your things and then again at two for your appointment.”
A few minutes later, I heard all of them file out of the suite and the door close with a soft click.
Then, feast before me, warm bath next on the agenda, I was alone.
***
I decided I could really get used to being pampered even if that meant having to endure increased levels of human interaction. I stuffed myself. It was shameful. But I wanted to try everything, and everything tasted so good. The only item I finished was the yogurt. It tasted more like a custard than yogurt, and I feared I would go into withdrawal when I returned to New York.
After gorging myself, I sent a quick message to WriteALoveSong. Before I’d left New York, I told her I was going to be out of town for a few weeks for work, but I promised to message as often as I could. So I fired off a fast note.
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I just arrived and ate my weight in breakfast foods. You may not hear from me for the next week as I digest all these waffles.
I was surprised when she quickly responded:
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Ohhh… waffles! What did the hipster glass of water say to the ice cube?
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: …oh no… what?
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: I’m you before you were cool. Have fun on your trip!
I rolled my eyes and chuckled despite myself, typing out a speedy, Farewell for now. After switching off my phone, I waddled to the bathroom and disrobed, climbing into the most luscious bath of my life. Really, there was no other word for it. It was luscious.
The water was still hot, and I discovered why when I was fully immersed; the porcelain was heated. As well, the bubbles were miraculous and never seemed to diminish or fizz out.
Patricia knocked on the bathroom door to announce her presence and alert me to the fact that she was unpacking my bags. I thought about sending her away, but the luscious bath and sumptuous lunch made me feel lethargic and amenable to being spoiled. So I called my acknowledgment and relaxed.
It was in the bath that my thoughts invariably turned to Ronan. I wondered where he was, what he was doing, when he would be back. I also realized the ramifications of the single-bedroom suite and the single king-sized bed.
A surge of anxiety at the thought of sharing the bed with Ronan was followed by a surge of something else, something altogether more pleasant and dangerous. This, of course, made me think about Ronan undressing me as I slept this morning, his large, powerful hands pulling down my jeans as I lay limp beneath him….
I closed my eyes, indulging myself in the fantasy of Ronan undressing me completely; in the fantasy I was still limp, but I was awake. I touched my breasts lightly as I imagined him slowly slipping the straps down my shoulders, unhooking the clasp at the front, and revealing the expanse of my skin to his eyes. I imagined him lowering his mouth to me while the back of his fingers caressed a light path from my ribcage to my stomach then lower, into the waistband of my pink lace underwear.
My hand served as a substitute for his, and I touched myself, enjoying the slippery softness of my skin, feeling myself and knowing that this was what he would feel, wondering if he would be pleased with the slopes and curves of my body and all its secrets. I imagined his eyes on me, devouring the sight of my nakedness as he left a trail of wet kisses between my breasts, lower to my belly button, until finally—
My musings were cruelly interrupted by another knock on the door. I yanked my hand away, splashing water and some of the miraculous bubbles onto the marble floor then sat upright in the tub.
I glanced at myself; everything below my shoulders was still neatly hidden beneath a layer of white foam. “I—uh—come in. I’m nearly finished.”
My exhale was unsteady, my heart beating excitedly, and I knew I was flushed with the evidence of my almost orgasm. Hopefully, Patricia would assume the blush was caused by hot water and not hot thoughts.
But it wasn’t Patricia at the door. It was Ronan.
And he wasn’t exactly dressed. He was wearing a towel around his narrow hips, a glimpse of swim trunks visible, and nothing else.
I gawked at him—this being my first time seeing his body live, in person, and not in the static pages of a magazine or pixelated on the Internet—and knew nothing virtual or imaginary could come close to the reality of that chest and torso. He was all rigid muscle and sharp angles. A tribal tattoo of some sort snaked up his hip, originating from beneath the towel and spiraling up to his ribcage and chest. I wanted to trace it with my fingers, the curling lines. I wanted to press my mouth against it and taste his skin. He looked like he’d be hard to the touch, but I knew he’d also be warm.
“Annie?”
I blinked, startled and mortified to realize I’d been staring, and snapped my mouth shut. With an effort, I lifted my gaze to his and set my jaw, fighting the urge to return my attention to the perfection of his body and the mystery of his tattoo.
“I—um—yes?”
Ronan shut the door behind him and stalked closer. His eyebrows lifted as he drew near, and his gaze moved over my face, dipped to my shoulders, detoured on my mouth.
“Enjoying your…bath?”
His eyes reminded me of chocolate in that moment, velvet dark chocolate, the kind used in succulent desserts, hot and silky, the kind you dipped strawberries in and savored as the juice from the berry and the sweet bitterness of the chocolate danced a euphoria over your tongue and down your throat….
I squirmed, my breath coming short, my arousal making me feel unsteady and lightheaded.
“Yes.” The word emerged as a breathless whisper, drawing his attention back to my eyes.
“You look uncomfortable. Is the bath too hot?”
I shook my head.
He hovered for a moment, surveying me—him and his epic torso—then sat at the edge of the tub and dipped his fingers into the water.
“What—what are you doing?” Again, my voice was breathless.
Part of me hoped he was going to say, Finishing what you started.
Another part of me hoped…oh, hell. Who was I kidding? Every part of me hoped he would say, Finishing what you started.
Instead he said, his lips twitching with poorly hidden amusement, “Just checking the temperature. You look flushed.” The back of his fingers brushed against my thigh, and I jumped, an inelegant squeak escaping my throat.
This was met with the rumbling sound of Ronan’s laughter and a rather obnoxious smirk. “You need to relax. Maybe you should take a nice, long bath.”
I glared at him and his grin, bringing my legs to my chest and wrapping my arms around my calves. Nothing of my body was visible besides my shoulders, but I felt suddenly quite seen. “I was…I am perfectly relaxed.”
“I could help, you know.” He nodded at this assertion, his hand still in the water, his fairytale body and warm, silky chocolate eyes filling my vision. “I could give you a massage…or a rubdown.”
I gritted my teeth and shook my head, but I said nothing. Because if I spoke, I would undoubtedly say yes.
He thought he was so clever. And he was. He was entirely too clever. I could see that he knew exactly what I’d been doing, or about to do. Doubtless he’d even realized that he was the sole inspiration for my dirty daydream.
“It would be no trouble at all. I promise you’ll like it.” His hand in the bath moved to my shoulder, and he brushed the back of his fingers against my collarbone, leaving a wet trail of sliding bubbles from the top of my sternum to my shoulder.
I rolled my lips between my teeth to keep from panting.
“Loosen your arms, and open your legs for me,” he said, his voice growing both solemn and soft; it was a command. His fingers slid down my arm to my knee, and he covered it with his palm, squeezing gently.
My eyelids drooped, and I half blinked, my heart hammering and hopeful. Everywhere he touched went lax. My arms fell to my sides, and my legs relaxed, opened as he nudged them apart. Then he skimmed his light caress between my thighs, and I held my breath.