“Oops, I shouldn’t have brought that up. You don’t like me to talk about your time in prison. It was so hard to be away from each other. Your passionate letters were the only thing that kept me going.” I stretch up on my tiptoes and brush my lips over his cheek. The scruff on his square jawline tickles my lips. “Don’t worry, I told this guy I was taken.”
His hand lands on my ass and tugs me closer—instinct, I suppose, when a woman claiming to know you throws herself in your direction.
I burrow into the curve of his shoulder. I’m aware that my body is damp, and I’m probably getting him wet, but needs must. My finger doodles little hearts on his chest. His dress shirt is silky soft and obviously expensive. Now that would be nice to sleep on, instead of the scratchy sheets on my bed.
“You surprised me,” I say. “I thought you were taking a nap.”
“I wasn’t,” he says as his eyes flash at me. A thrill dashes over me at the intensity in them. They’re an icy gray, surrounded by extravagantly thick black lashes. The color is striking, startling against his sun-kissed face. I see striations of blue and gold around his pupil. Mixed with the gray, his irises are like storm clouds with flashes of lightning. Straight brows slash over a face carved like granite.
My gaze moves lower, tracing the strong muscled lines of his throat to the gold necklace around his neck, a pendant hidden in the folds of his shirt. Men who wear necklaces are a little sleazy, in my opinion, but he carries it off like a champ. My man has style.
His face darkens. “What the hell is going—”
Shaking myself out of my detailed perusal, I pretend to hold him back as I whip my head around dramatically at Fake Clint. “This guy was just being neighborly, honey bunny. He said he was sorry for talking to me. Don’t let him ruin our vacation. What we have is a unicorn romance.”
“‘Unicorn’？”
“Yes, honey bunny. Our love.”
Fake Clint bobs his head. “Yeah, sure, whatever, sorry, man, I don’t mean to get in the way of, um, whatever. Just saying hi to my neighbor. No need to . . .” He looks at Lambo, then at his bag, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “But wait, aren’t you just checking in—”
“Oh good, you bought it,” I interrupt as I try to take the duffel from Lambo’s hand. He refuses to give it up, so I end up patting it awkwardly. “Thanks for getting this for me. My luggage is worn out.” （Not even here. It’s in Vegas.）
Fake Clint darts his gaze between me and Lambo. I’m not sure he’s buying this charade.
Time to go for the gold. “Did you get the other thing, honey bunny?”
A few moments tick by as Lambo glares at me.
Come on, Lambo, help me out. Geez. Keep up. You are my honey bunny.
A dark eyebrow rises in question, annoyance just barely under the surface.
I ignore it.
“Lube. The cherry,” I say playfully, nudging him slightly. “It’s my favorite because it smells like you.”
He scowls.
“You forgot,” I say with a heartfelt sigh. “You’re just so big, honey bunny.”
His mouth parts, and before he can ruin my performance, I crook my arm through his and herd him to my door, unlock it, and tug him in. Surprisingly, he doesn’t give me much trouble.
I slam the door with a bang—take that, Fake Clint—then engage the dead bolt lock.
Leaving Lambo to his own devices, I tense my shoulders as I peek through the blinds.
Fake Clint leans against the rail and lights up a cigarette, and I huff. Go away, you rat.
“Okay, what . . . the . . . fuck?” Lambo calls from behind me.
I turn, and he looks angry.
Sadly, it does nothing to hamper his attractiveness. On a scale of one to ten for hotness, Lambo is a million. He’s truly a mountain of a man and stands with authority, his feet spread and arms crossed, calling attention to the roped muscles on his forearms. He doesn’t have that pumped-up steroid look with a short neck; no, his muscles fit his frame perfectly.
“Well?” The sharp word hangs in the air, and I get it, totally. This man is someone, and I’ve just messed with him.
I note the Rolex on his wrist, the Gucci belt, the Italian loafers. La-di-da. He knows how to dress. Men like him are a dime a dozen in Manhattan. I can walk out of my building and see ten. Carry on, Emmy.
I sigh, nudging my head back at the door. “Clint was right; these walls are thin. I can practically hear him exhaling his cigarette. Keep your voice down.”