The Perfect Plans Series [Box Set] (12 page)

“Whatever, Abs. But you do know you’re wrong, right? He’s totally gonna call you.”

“We’ll see. Even if he doesn’t, I had a great night. AMAZING night.”

“I bet you did, you lucky whore,” Stacey laughs. “Congratulations on ending your dry spell with a big BANG, baby! I’ll call you tomorrow. I want to know what happens. Love you, doll face.”

“Love you too,” I reply before hanging up, turning my face back into the Alex-scented pillow.

I’M BEING RIDICULOUS, having gone as far as sending housekeeping away. I did agree to let them carry away the left over plates from our meal last night, but there was no way in hell I was letting them disrupt the bed. I’m not mentally prepared to lose the reminder of my night with Alex, constantly replaying each and every moment over and over in my head.

In the silence of my room, curled up in the bed we shared, I stare absently at the club chair he occupied; shuddering as I recall the selfless orgasm he gave me before we ate. Moving my gaze to stare at the side of the bed he occupied, I run my fingers aimlessly over the indentation in the mattress. I’m like an obsessed teenager.

Releasing a frustrated sigh that the night is long over, I finally cave and turn on the TV, aimlessly surfing from channel to channel, not quite paying attention to the programs flashing by. Since I didn’t give Alex my mobile number, I plan on staying put in this room until he calls.
If
he calls. Dammit.

My channel surfing abruptly halts as I catch Alex’s face on the screen. Wow, he’s gorgeous. Face freshly shaven, hair styled to perfection, the man is mouth-wateringly stunning.

And
you
had him in your arms last night!
—my inner dreamer does her happy dance.

Unsure of when this show was recorded, I quickly flip on the guide. This is an interview. It must be the interview he had to leave for this morning. Unfortunately, the guide indicates I’ve missed the majority of it, which really sucks. Why did I waste the last twenty minutes
remembering
his face, when I could have turned on the TV to see it first hand?

With only a few minutes remaining, I turn up the volume, absorbing myself in the interviewer’s question, my attention fully rested on his stunning face.

“With your acting career in full swing, where do you see yourself in five years?”

With a raise of his brow, as though deep in thought, he responds,
“In an ideal world, I’d find the woman of my dreams, and be married. But isn’t that everyone’s perfect plan?”

I sit upright, intrigued by his familiar ideal . . .
He has a plan?
I
have a plan! OMG. It’s kismet.

Yeah, that’s what it is—
my inner actress rolls her eyes. Ignoring the downer thought, I increase the volume further and listen attentively.

“And speaking of the woman of your dreams, on behalf of all of our female viewers, what would you say is your biggest weakness when it comes to women?”
the short-haired brunette flashes him a flirtatious, playful smile on behalf of her audience.

My interest peaks even further, dramatically so, at her question. I, like all of the other women in the world, am dying to know what his weakness is. Straining forward on the bed, my elbows resting on my knees, I await his reply.

“Hmmm . . . ”
Alex pauses, giving the answer some thought.
“Well, I don’t want to be too open, and give too much away,”
he comments, baring his sweet, gentlemanly smile.
“I prefer to maintain a certain air of mystery,
” he finishes, clearly avoiding the question.

“Oh come on! Give us
something!
” I yell at the screen in frustration, jumping up and down on my knees; my demands surely echoed by the other female viewing audiences around the world.

As if hearing the worldwide reverberating demand, the interviewer urges him further,
“Oh, come now, Mr. Tate . . . Don’t be coy.”

“Thank you lady! Don’t let him get away with that slippery shit!”

At the second push, he smiles, looking downwards shyly,
“One of my weaknesses . . . ”
he states, thinking before looking back to the interviewer,
“A very recent weakness . . . floral tattoos.”

OH MY EVER-LOVING GOD. Did he just say floral tattoos?
My mind is spinning. Certainly he hasn’t been with anyone else recently with floral tattoos. How much of a coincidence would that be? Is it presumptuous of me to assume he’s referring to
my
tattoos? But seriously, what are the chances.

I yelp, jumping in surprise at the sudden loud shrill ring of the telephone. There’s only one person who would call my hotel room, I realize, and that’s the man of the hour—or the past twenty-four hours. My head is still reeling from what I just witnessed him say. How can I possibly talk to him
right
now?
But if I don’t answer, he may not call again
.

Ugh, dammit.
I curse to myself, picking up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Aby?” Alex’s sexy tone and British accent hit me like heated lightning bolts, shooting through my core. “Are you ok? You sound out of breath?”

“Ahhh . . . yeah, good to go.”
Good to go? Ugh. Who says that?

“What are you doing?”

“Just watching TV.”

“Anything interesting?” his tone is playful.

“Ummm . . . nope,” I lie through my teeth.

“Care to join me for dinner tonight?”

Hell yeah . . . Can I have
you
for dinner?
“Sure.”

“Okay, beautiful. I’ll pick you up at eight?”

“O-okay.”
Breathe Aby.
“Any particular dress code?” Nervousness assaults my shocked excitement that he actually called
and
that I’ll get to see him again.

“Just something comfortable.”

Something comfortable?
Ugh.
I want to ask where he’s taking me, but he clearly doesn’t want to divulge any information.
Who cares where! He wants to see me again!
“Ummm . . . Okay,” I resign, mentally cataloging my clothes; inwardly cringing at my repetitive lack of verbiage.

With a slight chuckle, he continues, “I look forward to it.” The suggestive note in his tone courses through me, leaving me reeling even more than I already was.

SITTING ON THE edge of the bed, I absently wind my hands together. It’s seven forty-eight, and I’m a complete bundle of nerves, anxiously waiting for Alex to knock on my door. We didn’t discuss exactly where he’d pick me up, so I can only assume that he’ll come to my room. I thought about waiting downstairs, but opted to just stay put. The image of my nerve-wracked figure pacing, if not frozen in place, inside the lobby aided that decision. At least in the confines of my room I can attempt to gather myself before opening the door.

My uncertainty of what ‘comfortable’ outfit to wear had me changing clothes three times. I finally settled on a pair of short black dress shorts, a satin coral-colored camisole and black wedges. I figure this outfit screams comfort, yet is presentable enough that I’d fit in at any restaurant Alex has selected.

Please God, don’t let me trip walking in.

My fiddling fingers intertwined in my loose waves, I look down at my unmade bed, jumping up at the realization that he’ll see the unkempt room. In a frenzy, I begin tidying up the discarded outfits, pulling the bed linens together, disappointed that I’m covering the still dented mattress on his side of the bed.
Oh, well. Perhaps we’ll dent a different bed tonight . . .

The thought elicits a sudden heat to my system. A flash reminder of Alex’s hands on my body, touching me, bringing me to orgasm with his mouth, hands and amazingly large cock. My only regret being that I didn’t get to taste him myself.
Maybe I’ll get to make up for that . . .

Wow. Where did that come from?
The man does crazy things to me.

Hearing a knock on the door, I suddenly feel sick. What if he sees me again and is disappointed in what he sees? What if he’s taking me to dinner to tell me it’s over? What if I’m not wearing the right outfit?

What if you stop breathing?
—my inner actress splashes me with cold water.

With a final span of the room, I’m satisfied that it looks to be in good order. Like that will quell my twisting nerves. I make my way to open the door, all of the stomach-turning thoughts flowing at full speed through my head.

My breathing stills at the site of Alex, his arm casually leaning against the doorframe, a heart-stopping smile donning his Adonis face. He’s dressed in light blue jeans—again loose fitting in all the right places—a muscle-filled blue collared dress shirt hanging over his lean hips; his beautiful brown curls covered in a black baseball cap.

“Hi,” I mumble, my nervousness surely written all over my face.

“Good evening. You look beautiful.” Stepping forward, he glides his hand along my jaw, rendering me speechless as I stare into his hooded gaze. I’m frozen in place as he tips my head back, leaning down to give me a gentle kiss. Pulling back with a smile, he runs his hands up and down my bare arms. “Ready to go?”

Unable to speak, I nod my head in acceptance.
Oh my good God. Legs don’t give out on me now.
Turning to grab my small black purse off the bed, I follow him out, lightheaded above my wobbly limbs.

Waiting for the elevator, I fumble with my little bag as memories of yesterday come crashing back. A sudden sentimental reminder of the first time this god-like man kissed me—an image that will be forever etched into my memory.

Alex takes my hand in his, a heated look crossing his face, his tongue jutting out to lick along his lower lip before biting it slightly. The idea that he’s sharing the same memory hitches my breath.

“Aby,” he whispers, a look of intense longing in his eyes.

Desire oozing from my own gaze, he grabs me, embracing me tightly around my waist. His lips crash down onto mine, his tongue magically awakening my core with powerful electric pulses.

I wrap my arms securely around his neck, diving deep into his kiss.

At the ding signaling the elevator’s arrival, he groans, pulling his delicious mouth from mine. Staring into my eyes, he runs his thumb gently along the kiss-swollen edge of my lip.

Through heightened breaths, we maintain our gaze, our unabashed need reflected. I’m left wondering if we’ll make it to dinner at all. It’s an overwhelming thought that Alexander Tate wants me as badly as I want him. I would give myself to him right here, where we stand, regardless of our public locale.

His lips curl into a relenting smile as he releases me, taking my hand to lead me into the elevator.

ALEX’S SILVER SPORTS car screams wealth. I’m a bit shell-shocked to be sitting in such a machine—my previously owned, and well-loved Honda Civic paling in comparison.

“What kind of car is this?” I continue admiring its black, lustrous interior, sliding my fingers adoringly along the smooth leather and polished chrome accents.

“My one self-indulgence,” he smiles sheepishly, “ . . . an Aston Martin DBS.”

“It’s stunning.”

“Thank you. I don’t get to drive her much with my travelling for work. I try to take her out every opportunity I get,” he takes my hand in his with an appreciative smile.