Page 27 of Room Serviced
“I like to be careful with my things,” he said, running a hand across the top of the case one last time. “Are you always this impatient?”
“Pretty much.”
Max walked over, and Sloane unfolded her arms, putting her hands on the edge of the desk. Vaguely, she wondered how sturdy hotel-room desks were and whether romance-themed hotels had sturdier ones. It probably wouldn’t be a terrible investment.
“So,” Max said when they were face to face, too close to be casual. “I heard you were having trouble with ghosts in your air-conditioning.”
Slowly, he slid his gaze down her body, then back up. Sloane’s heartbeat sped up, and she licked her lips, watching Max’s gaze flick down as she did.
“It’s very haunted,” she confirmed. “Totally clogged up with…spirits.”
Max put his hands on the desk beside hers. Like this, she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
“Yeah?” he asked. He was smiling and looking at her mouth, his voice in another register. “Should I go in and…help them move on?”
God, he was so close. He was close enough to make the hairs on her arms stand on end, close enough to feel his body heat, and he was still talking about this?
“Are we gonna talk about ghosts all night, or are we going to?—”
Max shut her up with his mouth, finally, with warm soft lips and a day’s worth of scratchy stubble. He kissed hard enough that she could feel it scraping along her chin and sending shivers up her spine.
After a moment, he pulled back just enough to slide the pad of one thumb beneath her lower lip, his pupils wide and black in the low light. “The fucking mouth on you,” he murmured.
“You like it.”
“It’s a good mouth,” Max agreed, and kissed her again, like his tongue belonged there, and for once Sloane couldn’t argue with him.
And god, he was good at it. Good in the same way he was good at holding whiskey glasses at weddings, good in the same way he was good at putting equipment away: steady and firm and certain, like he’d never thought of doing anything else. After a minute, Sloane pushed herself onto the desk, and Max made a satisfied noise into her mouth when she wrapped her feet around the backs of his thighs. He made another one when she slid a hand under his shirt, found the line of hair that went down his belly, and stroked it.
Sloane slid her fingers into it, closed them, and gave the gentlest tug she possibly could. Max groaned into her mouth. His hands found her thighs and closed around them, warmth sinking through the denim.
“Shit,” Sloane whispered, their mouths still touching. Max nipped at her lower lip before kissing her jaw, the spot below her ear, the pulse point of her neck. She grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged until he got the message and pulled it off over his head, tossing it somewhere on the floor. His hair came halfway out of its bun, and she spread her hands over his ribs as he pulled the elastic out and tossed it onto the desk, letting his pretty, glossy hair tumble around his shoulders.
Sloane bit her lip and smiled. “Look at you,” she said, and she meant for it to sound teasing and light but it sounded—weird. Hushed and sort of throaty, and she didn’t miss the way his eyes fluttered shut when she slid her fingers into his mane. “You should wear it like this more.”
“It’s not very practical.” Max opened his eyes just enough to look down at her, something hazy in his expression. Sloane slid her other hand into his hair, too, and felt the way his chest moved when he inhaled.
“Who cares about practical?” she asked. Max swallowed, and slowly, slowly, Sloane closed her fingers until she had a handful of his hair. “Besides, I disagree.”
“Yeah?” Max sounded like he was about to say something else, but it disappeared when Sloane tightened her grip and pulled, as gently as she could, and his breathing hitched as his head tilted back, his fingers digging into her thighs.
Sloane leaned in and licked the hollow of his throat. His skin was warm, a little salty, and the tendons flexed under her tongue so she did it again, then scraped her teeth along the ridge of his collarbone.
Max made a noise, somewhere low in his chest, that sounded a lot like Oh, fuck, and Sloane shuddered.
She knew she couldn’t leave marks, knew he was going to be camera soon enough that they’d be visible to anyone and everyone who watched. It became a mantra as she pulled his head back a little harder, bit the tendons that stood out, sucking kisses as far up as she could reach. Don’t mark him. Don’t mark him.
She wanted to. Sloane wanted to sink her teeth into the thick muscle where his neck met his shoulder and see if her mark would still be there tomorrow, red and puffy, but she didn’t. Max’s whole body was tense: his thumbs digging into her inner thighs, his chest rigid against her as he leaned in, his shoulders straining against nothing. She was pulling his hair too hard, probably, and she knew it and knew she should stop before she left a bruise where he couldn’t cover it up, but god, the noises: surprised gasps and groans that he couldn’t quite suppress, whispered Jesus Christs when she sucked a little too hard on his pulse point.
When she finally let his hair go, he kissed her so hard she nearly tumbled backward onto the desk, one of Max’s hands still on her thigh, the other hot and firm on the back of her neck. His skin felt fever hot under her hands, the warmth sinking through the fabric as he pulled her closer. Jesus, he was rock hard, even through layers of denim, and Sloane tightened her legs around his hips.
Then the hand on her neck was on the back of her skull, in her hair, and he tugged at her bottom lip with his teeth and pulled back. “Does that go both ways?” he asked, low and raspy, fingers flexing.
Sloane’s mind went blank. “Does what?”
“The hair pulling,” he said, moving his fingers in her hair, his mouth against her jaw. There was a smile in his voice. “If I do it, are you gonna moan or punch me?”
Sloane swallowed. “Moan, but not yet.”
