Chapter 9: The Linen Room

"I'd rather you did it," I said.

Mateo looked at me across the little office, and the pen fell out from behind his ear.

"Did what?"

"Washed it off."

He did not move for a moment, and then he reached past me and turned the key in the lock.

"Not here," he said. "The twelfth floor. The linen room has a door that closes."

We took the service elevator, side by side, without touching.

I watched the numbers climb with my pulse going in my ears.

The linen room was warm and white and smelled of starch.

There were steel shelves of folded towels and a long table with a stack of blankets.

One bare bulb hung above the door.

He shut it behind us and stood with his back against it.

"Tell me to leave and I will," he said.

"I'm cold."

His mouth twitched, and it was not quite a smile.

"Ask for a blanket."

"I'm asking."

I crossed the room and took hold of his shirt with both hands.

I kissed him, hard, and he made a low sound against my mouth and caught my face in his palms.

It was nothing like Preston's kiss.

It was not careful or kind or practiced.

It was hungry and clumsy at the edges, and I felt how long he had wanted to.

I pushed his jacket off his shoulders and heard it hit the floor.

He turned us, and my back met the shelf of towels, and his hands went to my coat and my blouse.

The buttons came open under his fingers, one by one.

I tore at his shirt, and a button went somewhere into the dark.

His hands were warm on my bare ribs, and then they were on my breasts.

His thumbs dragged across my nipples through the lace until I gasped into his neck.

"Ingrid," he said, rough.

"Don't say my name like that unless you mean it."

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