Chapter 7: Room 15

He opened the door before my knuckles had left the wood.

He had been standing behind it.

I could see that from the way his chest went up and down, and from the fact that he had no shirt on at all.

"You said you wanted it off before the door closed," Rhett said.

"I said I wanted to be the one."

"Then you're late."

I walked past him into the room, and he shut the door, and the click of the lock was the loudest sound I had ever heard.

His room was the mirror of mine, with the same white bed and the same balcony, and a single lamp on.

His shirts were folded on the chair, and a worn paperback lay open on the pillow.

I turned around.

He stood with his back against the door and his hands at his sides, waiting.

"You said I set the pace," I said.

"I did."

"Then come here."

He crossed the room in three steps, and I put both palms flat on his bare chest and pushed him down to sit on the edge of the bed.

His skin was hot under my hands.

His breath caught, and he looked up at me with his eyes gone almost black.

"Say it again," he said. "That you want this."

"I want this."

"Say what."

"I want to climb on you, and ride you until I can't remember the name of the hotel."

He closed his eyes for a second and made a sound that was half laugh and half groan.

"Rochelle."

"Hands behind you. Flat on the bed."

He put them there.

I reached behind my neck and undid the clasp of the green dress, and let it fall to the floor.

I had nothing on under it, and I had chosen that on purpose.

His eyes went over me slowly, from my throat to my breasts to the soft curve of my stomach and down.

"God," he said. "You're beautiful."

"I'm average."

"You're not. You're a lot of things, and average isn't one of them."

I straddled his lap and took his face in both hands.

I kissed him, deep and slow, and his hands stayed where I had put them, gripping the sheet until his knuckles went pale.

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