Page 57 of The Haunted Hotel
I really am going to have to have words with them. I know they want to practise their haunting skills, but enough is enough. They’re really stressing Morgan out and he doesn’t even believe in ghosts.
Morgan stalks past John the Maid, who is standing with his hand on the handle of the vacuum cleaner, glaring at the trail of bubbles and wet, soapy footprints left in Morgan’s wake. But before John the Maid can open his mouth to say anything, Morgan lets himself into his room and slams the door.
I hurry down the corridor, clutching my towel so I don’t inadvertently flash John the Maid. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him as I reach Morgan’s door. “It was an accident.”
John the Maid glowers at me, then the carpet, then Morgan’s door, then growls loudly and stomps off in the direction of his supply cupboard on this floor.
“Morgan!” I knock on his door loudly but, unsurprisingly, there’s no response. “Morgan!”
I keep knocking, even as my body shudders and my teeth start to chatter. Bloody hell, it’s cold. “Morgan, please! I’m freezing out here.”
The door suddenly swings open and Morgan is standing there in all his livid, soggy glory. He takes one look at my shivering body and reaches out, pulling me into his room and shutting the door behind me. It only takes me a moment to feel warmer. I’m definitely going to have to check to make sure the heating is working in the communal hallways on this floor.
Having stripped off his soaked jacket and trousers and kicked off his ruined shoes in the short time he’s been in his room, Morgan’s now in nothing but a pair of very sexy, tight black boxer briefs and a very wet shirt, which is plastered to his body, giving me a delicious view of his well-defined pecs and the dark hair covering them.
I’m so caught up in my attempt not to drool that I’ve almost forgotten I’m in nothing but a towel when Morgan yanks a blanket off his bed and wraps it around me to keep me warm. “What are you doing?” he snaps. “Are you trying to catch pneumonia?”
“No, I?—”
“Oh my god, what the hell am I doing here? It’s a never-ending cycle of abject humiliation and feeling like a complete and total idiot. I don’t do this. I don’t make a fool of myself,” he rants as he paces the floor, running his fingers through his hair.His expression contorts at the slimy handful of peach-smelling body wash that he pulls away from his scalp. “I can’t believe I walked into the wrong room. What the hell is wrong with me? I checked the number. I could’ve sworn I checked the number.”
“Well, I—” I try to interrupt, to let him know it wasn’t his fault. Not that he’d believe me if I told him the dead twinky tennis instructor in white hotpants had intentionally emptied all the shampoo and body wash bottles over the tiled bathroom floor, turning it into a skating rink. Roger’s lucky Morgan didn’t knock himself out cold on the sink; instead, he’d ended up in the tub with me. Well, in the tub ontopof me, and I was very naked… andveryslippery.
“I swear, I’m not some sort of sexual predator.” He grimaces. “I just couldn’t get a good grip.” His eyes widen in horror. “I don’t mean on you. I mean on the bath… to climb out…oh my god.” He covers his eyes with one soapy hand and immediately hisses in pain, no doubt from the soap making his eyes sting.
“Morgan.” I still his hands with mine, my mouth curving as he blinks at me rapidly, his eyes streaming. Reaching up with one of my hands, I wipe gently at his face with the edge of the blanket he wrapped me in. “Trust me, I don’t think you’re a sex predator at all.” I chuckle. “It wasn’t your fault. Even though I have a room up on the fifth floor, I use that suite when it’s not in use because I like the bathtub. I only have a tiny little bathroom, which I happen to share with Rosie, who has the room adjacent to mine.”
“I’m sorry,” he says miserably, and I want to lean in and kiss his bottom lip which is sticking out.
“It’s fine,” I murmur, then realise that my hand has dropped the blanket and is now cupping his cheek, my thumb stroking the stubble along his jaw.
His dark eyes flare as his gaze drops to my mouth. I watch as those sexy eyes, the colour of bittersweet chocolate, travel overmy throat and down my bare chest. The blanket, now loosely draped around my shoulders like a cape, does nothing to hide the spectacular tenting of my unicorn towel.
I’m not even ashamed. Morgan is the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. Fuck, I want him so bad. My hard cock is aching, my heart is pounding, and my breathing is just a series of shallow little pants. I’m so desperately turned on by him. I want that gorgeous body pressing me into the bed, all hot, hard flesh and delicious friction.
I know it’s been a long time for me, but I’ve never wanted a man like I want him. And his breathing is as erratic as mine—this isn’t one-sided.
Is it a bad idea? Probably.
Am I going for it anyway? You bet I am.
I don’t know which one of us moves first, but the next thing I know, our mouths meet in a desperate clash of lips and tongues. My hands tangle in his slick hair and his palms slide around my naked waist, pulling me flush against his body.
One of us groans and I’m not sure who. It had a kind of choral quality to it, so maybe it was both of us in glorious harmony. I grind up against him and he returns the motion. Oh yeah, we are both definitely on board the same train.
“Morgan,” I breathe heavily. “Morgan.” His name is on repeat in my head because I don’t currently have the mental capacity for anything more eloquent thanget your dick out and fuck me hard.
Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.
The blanket slips from my shoulders and we stumble as he powers me backwards until I’m pressed up against the wall.
Maybe not.
“We probably shouldn’t be doing this,” he pants between kisses. I reach up and unknot his tie, sliding it out from his damp collar.
“Uh-huh.” I kiss him again, dropping the tie and reaching for his buttons. “Terrible idea.”
“Really terrible idea,” he groans, reaching down and whipping my towel off, then sending the unicorns flying across the room.