He released her hands as she wrapped her arms about his waist. His hands traced her back over the bulky borrowed coat she was wearing, coming to rest on her waist. “Can we just order room service?” He pulled her towards him and kissed her softly.
“Yes, lovely, we can absolutely order room service.”
She beamed. “You know, I’m pretty sure that we’ll both fit in the tub.”
“Is that so?”
“It is so.”
His phone must have vibrated because he took it out of his pocket. “The car has arrived.” He lifted his eyes and scanned the road outside the fair. “I think I see it. This way.” Archer took her hand again and Chloe let herself be led through the milling crowd.
*
“You were right, Ms Sims, we do fit.”
“I think you will find that I am often right.” He chuckled, and Chloe felt the reverberation of his voice pulse against her bare back.
They were ensconced in the giant bathtub, Chloe cocooned between Archer’s legs, his limbs encircling her. They had said very little since climbing into the bath, and Chloe was content to luxuriate in the feel of his body against hers, ignoring the niggling thought that out there in London somewhere was an ex with a grudge.
“What’s this?” Two fingertips trailed over a small scar running along the back of her left wrist.
“Oh, that’s what happens when you let your best friend talk you into going horse riding on holiday.”
“You fell.” It was statement rather than a question.
“I did. We were in Mexico—me, Jules, and Lucy on one of our May Ladies holidays—and Jules talked us into riding horses on the beach. For her, it’s like riding a bike. For me and Lucy, not so much.” His fingertips traced her arm and brushed the side of her breast. His soft lips found just the right spot behind her ear and she closed her eyes, breathing in deeply.
“So, what happened?” he murmured his mouth against her skin.
The memory replayed in her head in record time. She had been given the tallest horse, a behemoth of terrifying equineness, and when a quad bike rode by, her horse had shied, and she had landed with a plop on the wet sand. She’d flown home early from that holiday to have orthopaedic hand surgery. It had been a lengthy and painful recovery and Jules still apologised on occasion.
But Chloe had no intention of going into all of that now. “Like you said, I fell.” His hands were cupping her breasts, stroking gently, while his mouth continued its magic caresses on her neck. She could hardly breathe with the anticipation of him.
“Archer …” She turned to kiss him, their mouths meeting with the urgency. Water slopped over the side of the bath and somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Chloe thought of the clean-up—again.
When Archer groaned, Chloe thought it was with pleasure, but he pulled away from her. “What?” she asked, breathless.
“We ordered room service for seven-thirty. It’s seven twenty-seven.” He must have been eyeing the clock over her shoulder.
“Room service is never on time.” She captured his lower lip between her teeth. “Oh.” It occurred to her where they were. “The Four Seasons.”
“Precisely.”
“Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.”
He laughed. “I told you it was a good swear word.”
She shook her head and sniggered, then reluctantly climbed out of the tub. When she’d patted herself dry, she wrapped the fluffy bath sheet around her and, as if on cue, the suite’s doorbell rang. “Shall I get that?” she asked.
“Would you mind?” Archer stood in the bath, the water sluicing from his lean frame, and she handed him a towel.
“I do not mind.”
“Perhaps exchange that for a robe, though.”
She dropped her chin and looked at the towel, which on her small frame looked as though she was wrapped in a blanket. “Sure,” she said humouring him. Sliding into the robe, she let her eyes rove over Archer’s glorious nakedness while he dried himself off.
The doorbell rang again, and Chloe pulled herself away from her handsome, naked lover. She rushed the length of the suite and flung open the door, first taking in the white-linen-clad trolley covered in silver cloches, then the uniformed porter who was wearing a somewhat mortified expression, and then the harried looking woman standing behind him.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Chloe said.
“Is he here? I want to see him. Archer!” Madison craned her neck to see into the room. “Aren’t you ever dressed?” she spat at Chloe.
Chloe, perplexed by this bizarre scene, had no time to form a response before feeling Archer’s arm wrap protectively around her shoulder. She looked between him and Madison—both glowering—then clocked the porter’s expression.
You couldn’t write this shit, she thought before snapping into action.
“Right, could you bring that inside, please?” Chloe said to the porter. The poor man looked so relieved to have an instruction that he wasted no time before complying. Chloe squeezed Archer’s hand on her shoulder, then stepped aside, making room for the trolley. The porter didn’t unload it or even wait for a tip before he hastily retreated.
“Now,” said Chloe to Madison, “you, go wait downstairs in the bar next to the lobby.” Madison’s eyes widened and Chloe could feel the outrage seeping from the other woman’s pores. She started to say something, but Chloe cut her off. “Go.” Then she slammed the door.
Only then did Chloe look at Archer, suddenly sheepish. He blinked a couple of times, scowled, and shook his head as if to dislodge some awful thought. “I’ve overstepped,” she said simply, her stomach clenching as she waited for his face to settle into a single expression. This could be the end of whatever it was they were doing together.
“No.”
A single, simple word, yet it meant everything and Chloe let her breath escape.
He stepped closer, taking both her hands in his. “No, you didn’t overstep. You’ve no need to apologise.
