Room Service Read online

  She looked at the lovely antique furniture polished to a high shine and the low couches arranged in a way that encouraged socializing. “There’s still something different…”

  He turned and looked at her. “Do you mean because it’s meant for sex?”

  “Um…” She bit her lower lip and clutched her brown bag. “Well, yes.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” He pointed to an enclosed bookcase. “There’s the video selection. Let me be specific. We’re talking erotica. The best out there. Specifically designed for each guest.” He pulled open the doors and revealed a stack of DVDs all geared toward spanking. “This particular guest’s favorite fantasy.”

  She swallowed hard. “Um, how does Hush know what they’ll want?”


  “The questions must be interesting.”

  “You know it.” He pulled out a DVD. The cover showed a woman over a man’s knee, her skirt pushed high on her waist, her panties to her knees, her bottom extremely red.

  She struggled not to react but she felt her eyes widen.

  “What do you think?” Jacob asked her, sounding darkly amused.

  She looked at the man’s big hand, raised above the woman’s bottom. “Um…”

  “Let me guess. Not your cup of tea?”

  “Not quite,” she managed.

  With a rough laugh, he put the DVD back and took her into the bedroom, opening the closet there.

  This time her mouth just fell open.

  “A selection of costumes,” he said, holding up a leather bustier, complete with whip. “This one is for a dominatrix fantasy.” He arched a brow at her choked laugh. “No?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head.

  He pulled out another hanger. “How about a French maid?”

  “Uh…no. Thank you.”

  Shrugging, he put that one back and opened the chest at the foot of the luxurious bed. Inside was a selection of…oh, my.

  More toys, some of which she couldn’t even identify. “Quite the education,” she managed, leaning over him, touching a set of what she assumed were hand and ankle cuffs, in braided leather, lined with fur. She caught his eyes and nearly stopped breathing.

  He was watching her finger the handcuffs, his eyes so dark she couldn’t differentiate the iris from the pupil. “Well?”

  “I’ve never…um.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “I’ve never been bound before,” she whispered.

  “A fantasy?” he asked, his voice a mere whisper of a breath.

  She touched a set of silk scarves, a leather harness, a riding crop, and shivered. “I didn’t think so…” But now she could see herself bound in the cuffs, the scarf over her eyes, her body stretched to its limit on the bed as he leaned over her, taking her to helplessly aroused heights….

  “Jesus, Em.” Backing away from the closet, he shoved his fingers through his short, short hair, heat and sexual frustration coming off him in waves. “I’m just a man here.”

  Yeah. She was counting on that.

  He turned toward the bathroom, which was bigger than her condo at home. An open sitting area sported a set of cushy, leather massage tables side by side.

  “Wow,” she murmured.

  “You’ve said that.”

  She looked at him. He had carefully kept his distance, which in itself was extremely telling. Setting her brown bag down on the flawless polished granite counter, she nodded to the massage tables. “For couples?”

  “You can get a masseuse in here, or just do each other. Everything needed is in the cabinets at the side of the tables.”

  She opened one and saw oils, lotions, candles…“I used to do manicures,” she said. “I gave the best hand massages in Hollywood.”

  A dimple flashed. “I’m not going to touch that one.”

  She just gave him a long look.

  “And here I thought you were just a producer.”

  “Now.” And hopefully also next month. “But when I was in college, I worked wherever the money was. People gave great tips for my hand massages.” She patted a lounge chair. “I could show you.”

  He stayed across the room, his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think so.”

  And the hunter became the huntee. This was too good to pass up. “Chicken?”

  His eyes reflected how he felt about being called a chicken, and she nearly backed off. And she would have backed off if she hadn’t seen other things there as well, like—it couldn’t really be—uncertainty?

  And want. There was no mistaking that one.

  Good Lord, it was the sheer magnitude of that want that had her trying again to reach him. “Sit,” she said again. “Try it.” Try me.

  He hesitated for one beat, then strode over to her and did as she’d asked, sitting on one of the massage tables. “Turnaround is fair play,” he said so silkily she got goose bumps.

  “You mean you want to massage my hands, too?” she asked.

  “Not your hands, no.”

  Oh, boy. She took his wrists and turned them. Ran her thumbs over the work-roughened skin and calluses of his palms. “You haven’t been moisturizing.”

  “No,” he agreed, his gaze still locked on her face.

  “Your hands are your treasure, Jacob.”

  “Actually, I think of my treasure as another body part entirely.” Another flash of that dimple. “Want to moisturize and massage that part?”


  To: Chef

  From: Deidre

  Hey, I’m at Exhibit A having way too much fun. Nothing you’re doing can possibly compare, so get your gorgeous ass down here and join me.

  EM SWALLOWED HARD and looked into Jacob’s challenging eyes. “Let’s start with your hands,” she managed.

  She had the pleasure of seeing those eyes glaze over, of watching him swallow hard, of rendering him speechless for a change.

  About time.

  The sheer womanly power of it made her want to toss her head back and laugh. Or rip off all her clothes and offer herself to him.

  She did none of those things, just smiled in what she hoped was a daringly sexual way, and reached for a bottle of oil from the cabinet. She poured a little on her palm, its mixed scent sweetening the air. Then she reached for his hands and began to rub them.

  At first, he remained silent, though she could feel him looking at her. She dug in, taking her time, hitting every muscle, every tendon, working each finger, his palm, his thumb. “Good?” she finally murmured, lifting her head.

  His eyes were dark, his face taut as he gestured with his chin. She followed his gaze down.

  He was unmistakably hard, the proof of it pressing against the buttons of his black Levi’s.

  Yep. It was good.

  “My turn,” he said thickly when she was done.

  Oh, boy. He rose from the table and eyed her in a way that had her backing up. “You know what? That’s okay,” she decided. “My hands are good. I don’t work them nearly as hard as you work yours—”

  “Get on the table, Em.”

  “Well, I—”


  She looked into his daring eyes, reminding herself she’d wanted this. She’d egged him on, played the game, and now she was going to follow through. “Okay, fine.” She sat primly, legs swinging off the sides, hands in her lap. “I’ll have you know, massaging hands takes quite the technique, not everyone can—”

  “I’m not going to massage your hands. Lie down.”


  He clucked like a chicken, and she had to laugh. “Fine.” She wasn’t afraid of him.

  Or not much, anyway.

  Swallowing again, she contemplated the situation and tried to decide whether to lie facedown or faceup, because if she went facedown she couldn’t see what he was up to, but if she went faceup then that left him with some fairly obtrusive areas to touch….

  “You’re thinking too much again,” he said, sounding amused. At her expense.