Page 9 of Agency

“That joke’s a little too easy.”

She moved a fraction of an inch closer–so close I could feel her breath breezing over my lips when next she spoke. “How about this?” she asked, her hand leaving my arm and alighting on my thigh. Her entire hand kept nearly the same motion as her thumb, and she began to creep higher and higher as a wonderfully wicked smile grew on her enticingly painted lips.

“Which hotel?” I nearly groaned as the tips of those lithe, sexy fingers brushed inches away from head of my half-hard cock.

“Follow me,” she said, hand pulling frustratingly back.

Chapter Three

Ambyr

Before Morgan had stepped even a dozen paces into the hotel lobby, I was already pulling him into the lounge for a night cap. With a domestic beer for him, and another martini for me, we ensconced ourselves in the dark recesses of a corner booth.

Extra points for him, too, for picking a spot where we could both see the comings and goings of any newly arrived patrons. I knew I’d immediately liked him for a reason, and not just because of the way my body seemed to so perfectly meld into the side of his powerful frame.

Because, oh, did my body meld so perfectly!

A jazz pianist played on the other side of the bar, far enough away that the music was enticing, rather than overpowering. He wasn’t bad by any means, and I let the unobtrusive notes wash over me as I snuggled in closer to Morgan’s filled-out side. “Fly Me to the Moon” first, then “Summertime.” Old standards I remembered my parents playing on their old record player, back before they’d passed.

The smell of him seemed to envelop me, and I more than welcomed its earthy, spicy, tantalizing embrace as the warmth of his body, even through the heavy twill pants and T-shirt he wore, seemed to raise my own core temperature a degree or two. And I definitely couldn’t forget the muscles of his trim, well-developed body pressing into me, especially as his arm now lazily draped over my shoulders and pulled me more fully into his side.

As I took another sip of my martini, I realized there was a low undercurrent, almost a hum, passing through me from somewhere. Glancing up to Morgan, I discovered exactly where that undercurrent was coming from.

“Never would have suspected you for a jazz fan,” I said.

Immediately, he began to blush, as if I’d walked in on him mid-solo-coitous, and the humming stopped.

I sucked in a sharp breath as I set my martini back down. “I’m sorry! No, keep going. It’s cute! Really! I love jazz! I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “My dad was a trombone player, so I kind of absorbed it by osmosis.”

“By osmosis? You didn’t play?”

“Nah. I inherited my mom’s musical ability, I guess, and so I mostly stuck to sports. Kind of a disappointment, I guess. Here he was, a jazz musician touring these big festivals and playing all these great and storied jazz clubs around the country, and his son went in the exact opposite direction. Wrestling, soccer, football, then the military.”

Chuckling, I bit my lip as I smiled up at him. “Well, at least you still enjoy it. I’m sure he appreciates that.”

“He passed a while ago. They both did. Not that he paid much attention to me when he was alive. Always on the road, leaving me mostly with my nana. My grandmother, I mean.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Then, before I could stop myself: “Mine did, too, when I was younger. I was raised by my aunt.”

My eyes widened a fraction of an inch as I realized what I’d just said. He was too busy looking back across the lounge at the piano player, though, to notice my reaction to my own words.

After all, that had actually been true.

“Oh.” He looked down at me, and when he spoke there was genuine sympathy in his voice. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“It’s…” I trailed off as I cleared my throat, tried to remember the last time anyone had sounded that way when speaking to me about, well, anything. After all, I never told any of these men anything real, concrete, or factual about myself.

I let out a sigh. “It’s all right. It was a long, long time ago. The jazz, though? At least you enjoy it.”

Still gazing down at me, his eyes flickered over my features for a moment, and he seemed to realize I wanted to change the subject. “Well, how can a person not?” he asked as the pianist segued into “Any Place I Hang My Hat Is Home,” a fitting song for the location. “The old standards have easy rhythm, it’s written to be pleasant. It’s exciting.” He was smiling a little, actually smiling, by the time he’d finished speaking, and his blush had already begun to fade, just like my memory of my little slip.

“No, you’re completely right,” I said, returning his smile, with interest, before laying my head on his shoulder and letting the tantalizing hints of music wash back over me.

How long since I’d enjoyed something like this? Something quiet, romantic, and easy, where I wasn’t just seducing a man upstairs to my room so I could try and forget my day job while I spent a night in their arms?

Years? Nearly a decade?