Page 22 of Moonlighter

I’m wearing my slinkiest sundress, just in case I’m not the only one who feels a stirring sensation down below. Why should I be the only one to suffer? I straighten my spine and lift my chin, which has the advantage of emphasizing my bust.

As it happens, my boobs are in a tight race with my ass for which body part can most quickly expand. I’m busting out of all my bras, and should probably shop for new ones. So let’s just say I’m filling out this dress a lot better than my preteen self would have dreamt possible.

“Lunch would be nice,” I murmur, and somehow it comes out sounding like a proposition. As if I’d said,sex on the terrace sounds wonderful.

His eyes go hot and then cool again so fast that I may have imagined it. “The restaurant is probably air conditioned. You might need a sweater.”

“Pregnant women run hot,” I say, and that sounds kinky, too. They do, though. “Although I’m pretty sure they’d frown on a shirtless customer.”

He makes a grumpy noise and stands up. “One second. I’ll find a shirt.”

Point to Alex!I love competition. And if Eric wants to make our time together into some kind of libido battle, then I’m here for that.

Up to a point, anyway. I pull out my phone while he’s changing his clothes, and dial the hotel’s reception desk.

“Yes, Ms. Engels,” the receptionist says. “How can I assist you?”

“This suite is lovely,” I say quietly, moving toward the terrace door for a little privacy. “But perhaps I’ve booked the wrong room for my needs. Could you possibly relocate us to two adjacent king rooms instead?”

“I’m sorry to say that we’re fully booked,” the receptionist says. “I could call around to other hotels…”

“Oh, no.” Of course they’re booked. The tech conference draws executives from all over Asia and North America. “Thank you. I should probably stay put.”

“If you need a cot sent to your room, I could try to find availability.”

Someone clears his throat behind me, and I whirl around to see Eric waiting for me in a tight Brooklyn Bruisers T-shirt. Every ripple of muscle is visible where the cotton stretches to accommodate him. And the short sleeves don’t cover those powerful arms…

“Ms. Engels?” the receptionist asks. “The cot?”

“Oh! Thank you,” I say quickly. “That won’t be necessary. Thanks for your help,” I babble, and then quickly end the call.

“Problem?” Eric asks. And is he flexing his pecs at me? “Did I spill something on my shirt?”

My face burns as I drag my gaze up to meet his. “No spills. But I’m not sure that fits you. Consider sizing up.”

“No way.” He gives me a slow smile. “This shirt is lucky.”

“Oh.” All the athletes I know are superstitious. “You mean you win games after you wear it?”

“No, I mean it’s lucky to be wrapped so tightly around me. I wouldn’t want to deprive this shirt of that privilege. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“The ego on you,” I scoff. “Time for lunch.” I grab my clutch purse off a table, checking to make sure that my key card is there. “Do we need to turn the cushion around? Which side has the camera?”

“Oh, fuck.” He sighs. “I hate that thing.” He walks over to the couch and faces the spotted side toward the door. “Okay, let’s roll.” He beckons me toward the door of the suite.

We step outside together. And as we head for the elevator, Eric puts his big hand at the center of my back. It’s just a light touch, but his thumb finds the divot of my spine. And his light caress sends shivers down my bare arms. I stiffen and skitter away.

“Alex, look.” He stops in front of the elevator. “We need to get a few rules straight.”

“Rules?” I blink up at him, not really hearing. I still have goose bumps from his touch.

“Focus.” He snaps his fingers. “I’m supposed to pretend to be your jealous boyfriend.”

“Right.” I force my gaze up to his face where it belongs.

“According to my brother, your ex’s flight landed…” He looks at the watch on his thick wrist. “…Two hours ago. So tell me right now what’s allowed. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But I have to touch you occasionally to sell this. How about an arm around your shoulders? Or maybe I should hold your hand? You didn’t like it when I touched your back.”

“It’s f-fine,” I stutter. “My back is…yup.”