Escaping Reality

belly button. Beneath the symbol
    are rows of numbers I know represent infinite value, all aligned as an
    inverted triangle, and trailing downward to alluringly disappear into his
    pants.
    “What options do we have for food at this hour?” Liam asks the hotel
    operator, or whomever he is talking to, and the sound of his voice snaps my
    gaze upward. His eyes meet mine, and now his amusement is laced with
    male satisfaction. He leans on the edge of the wooden dining room table
    and holds the phone away from his mouth. “Is pizza okay and if so, what
    kind?”
    Pizza, not Pi, Amy. Keep your gaze up and stop thinking about where
    those infinite numbers stop. “Cheese. I like cheese.” I dart past him and
    head to the kitchen, needing space, needing to think.
    Once I’m behind the wall of the tiny, rectangular cracker box of a
    room, I wish I could take a jog. Running has been my salvation over the
    years, a way I found to block out the things that mess with my head.
    Instead, I just try to do anything I can to stay busy. I open cabinets to see if I
    have any supplies. The answer is no. No supplies, nothing to organize or
    clean. No place but Liam to put my mind and he’s no longer an escape. He’s
    just trouble.
    Pressing my hands to the counter, I let my head fall between my
    shoulders. I have nothing but the clothes I have on my back—or actually,
    that now lay on the hallway floor—and there is a billionaire standing a few
    feet away. The irony is hard to miss.
    Liam’s voice lifts, growing closer again, and it is deep and confident,
    from a man who owns his world when I do not own mine. I think maybe he
    owns it more than I do right now, and that is a sign I need that run and
    some time alone. I am weak tonight, but I will claw my way back to strength
    again. I will. I have no choice.
    I listen as he orders two large pizzas, one cheese and one pepperoni,
    and remembers my diet Sprite from the plane, which I am far too pleased
    about. The man is impossibly, frighteningly, involved in my world in all of
    one day. My crappy college boyfriend I’d gambled on, thinking he was my
    age, and far removed from my past and therefore safe, sure hadn’t known
    much about me. I’d thought that was good, another thing that made him
    safe, until I found my roommate’s legs around his neck.
    “Food and supplies should be here in about fifteen minutes.”
    I turn to find Liam standing under the archway of the kitchen entry,
    his dark hair rumpled, his broad and gloriously bare chest reminding me
    that I’m wearing his shirt. And while he is strikingly male, that is not what
    steals my breath in this moment. It’s the mix of tenderness and heat I find
    in his eyes.
    “You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper.
    “We both need to eat.”
    “That’s not what I mean, though I appreciate the food. You didn’t
    have to order the hotel to bring me things. That costs money, and—”
    He advances on me and I swallow the rest of my sentence. I start to
    back away but he is already in front of me, his hands on my waist. I suck in
    a breath, and just that fast, I’m on the counter, skirt up, knees apart, and
    the fingers of one of his hands tunnel into my hair. His mouth slants over
    mine, his tongue licking into my mouth, and he doesn’t taste tender. Not
    one little bit.
    He tastes like the raw, honest passion he’s promised this night will
    hold. And he tastes like me. It is a sultry, arousing thought. I sink deeper
    into the kiss, and this time, I am the one tangling my fingers into his dark
    hair.
    He reaches for my hand, covering it with his, tearing his mouth from
    mine. “I told you I do not do anything because I have to. And I don’t. But to
    be inside you right now, baby, I have to. I need to. And, yes—right here in
    the kitchen.” He pulls his shirt over my head and I don’t know where he
    tosses it. I am already wrapping my arms around him, pressing my naked
    breasts to his chest. He strokes a hand down my hair, brushing his lips over
    mine. “This isn’t going to be proper, but I’ll make it up to you, I promise. If I
    don’t find my way inside you now I won’t let you eat when the food
    arrives.”
    “The only thing you’ll have to make up to me is if someone comes to
    the door before this happens.”
    “They’ll wait if they have to,” he promises. “Put your hands on the
    counter behind your back.”
    “What?”
    “Do it, Amy. Let me look at you.”
    The inherent shyness life has