Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
“Okay.” He nodded, taking a drink from his own cup. “Because my sober brothers and sisters would read me the riot act if they knew what I was doing.”
I held out my glass. “To clandestine meetings.”
He toasted me, his eyes alight with a devilish flame. “Clandestine meetings.” He signaled the waitress. “Are you ready to order?”
I grabbed the menu and flipped through it. I hadn’t had a chance to look properly, but that didn’t seem to matter. All of a sudden, we were both eager to have dinner done with and out of the way. I opted for an omelet, always keen on having breakfast at night. He ordered fried chicken with a side of coleslaw, and we made small talk until the meal came.
“How’s Evil?” Porter asked.
“Good, I think.” I smiled guiltily. “I had to leave her with the vet.”
“This doesn’t bode well for my position in her government,” Porter teased.
“She’ll get over it after a few chicken gravy treats,” I said.
“So, is it weird for you to be back here?” Porter asked. “You mentioned you haven’t been in a while.”
I nodded. “It is a bit strange, yeah. It hasn’t changed much, that’s for sure.”
Our food arrived, and we dug in, each famished but saving room for a dessert that wasn’t on the menu. My omelet tasted good, like a home-cooked meal loaded with veggies and herbs. I was halfway through it before my stomach began to settle, and I was able to finish another quarter before I was full.
He started on his coleslaw, licking his thumb to capture some of the residual chicken grease. I wanted to lick his hands clean for him, to taste the salty sweetness of his meal and the underlying flavor of his skin. He caught me looking and grinned. All bets were off now. He knew what I wanted, and he wanted to give it to me. I felt my breath catch in my throat. Tonight, maybe minutes from now, I would experience what I had longed for all those sterile weeks we were forced to maintain our distance. Tonight, Porter would be mine.
There was an awkward pause as we both realized we were finished with our meals. It was time to move on to the main attraction. Porter twisted in his seat and flagged down the waitress. She left the check and gathered our plates, sparing only a tight smile.
I reached for my purse, but Porter shook his head. Instead, he peeled two bills off a fold and lay them on the table between us. “Where are you staying?” he asked, taking one last drink of water.
“At the hotel,” I answered.
“I’d invite you back to my place, but it’s one room with a communal bathroom I have to share with the entire floor.”
“My place, then?”
“If you don’t mind.” He slid out of the booth, reaching a hand back to help me rise.
“I don’t mind,” I demurred. Quite the opposite—I was ready, willing, and able.
We had each driven to the diner, so we had to part, get into our individual vehicles, and drive to the rendezvous. We were so focused on getting into a room together, putting a door between us and the world, that we didn’t even speak in the diner parking lot. There was no kiss, no hug, no parting words. We leapt into our respective drivers’ seats and peeled away.
Porter made it back to the hotel first and was waiting outside his truck when I pulled up. I hopped out of the car, pressed the lock button on my key fob, and grabbed his hand. The touch was electric. There were so few times in our history when we had been able to make contact that even the pressure of palm against palm felt erotic. My insides churned in anticipation of the evening. If holding his hand felt this good, I imagined what the rest of the conquest would feel like. But I didn’t have to imagine for long. It was happening; it was finally happening, and my heart soared up to the sky on wings of lust.
We broke through the lobby to the elevator, stepping inside and closing the doors. The moment we were alone, we were in each other’s arms. He wrapped one arm around my shoulders, grabbing my thigh with the other and lifting it to his hip. I ran my fingers through his hair, yanking his shirt from his trousers with the other hand. Our lips locked, our tongues wild and frenzied. A month’s worth of pent-up frustration exploded between us, and we were savages.
The elevator door opened, and we dropped the embrace, taking a step back from each other in case anyone was watching. The corridor was empty; we were alone. I dashed for the bedroom, plastic key card in my hand. It took me three swipes to make the red light turn green, each attempt generating more frustration, and eliciting a chuckle from behind me. When the lock finally gave and the door swung open, we rushed for the safety of the bedroom like two shipwrecked survivors.