“What?” I asked, when I couldn’t bear the quiet any longer.
“I still haven’t kissed you,” he said. “I wonder what you’d do if I didn’t try to kiss you at all.”
My breath hitched in my throat, and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out in protest. Instead, I managed to collect my thoughts, then tilt my head as I openly studied him. “So is this your fetish? Tormenting innocent women?”
“No,” he said simply. “And you’re not innocent.”
“No, I’m not.” I pressed my palm to his chest, then reveled in the way he drew in air, as if he needed to gather strength. “And I don’t want to be teased.”
“In that case, we have a problem.” He placed his own hand over mine, capturing me against him so that I couldn’t have pulled away if I wanted to. “Because I have every intention of teasing you. Fully. Mercilessly. I’m going to make you beg, Sloane. And only when I’ve taken you far enough will I make you come.”
My mouth went dry and my skin tingled. Beneath my dress, my nipples were as hard as pebbles. I wanted more, so help me I did, and I think the only reason I didn’t press myself shamelessly against him was that the doors behind us hissed open, and the gentle wash of cool air was as potent as a bucket of ice water. Especially when I saw the elegantly dressed couple waiting to enter.
I cleared my throat and, with my head high, stepped around them and off the elevator. Beside me, Tyler chuckled. “Shocking to think that they must know where we’re going and what we’re planning to do.”
I shot him a sideways glance. “They couldn’t possibly,” I said. “I don’t even know what we’re planning to do.”
He laughed. “You make a good point. But isn’t the anticipation delicious?”
I kept my mouth shut, deciding that silence was the wiser course, and followed him down the narrow ninth floor hallway. I’d never been on the guest level of such a fancy hotel, and I was just as impressed by this simple space as I had been by the Palm Court downstairs.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, letting my fingers stroke the molding and cream-colored wallpaper as we walked past door after door.
“It was built in 1920, and no dollar was spared. Did you know that Peter Ustinov once said that walking in The Drake was like walking on diamonds?”
“The actor?”
“Mmm. The list of people who have stayed here would make a gossip rag drool. Actors, royalty, even criminals.”
“Oh, really?” I said, working hard not to sound too amused. “Like who?”
“You ever heard of Francesco Nitto?”
“The Enforcer?”
He lifted his brows, then nodded with approval. “You know Chicago history.”
“I know about the Outfit,” I said, referring to Chicago’s infamous organized crime ring, the most famous leader of which was probably Al Capone. “Nitto stayed here?”
“Lived here,” Tyler said. “Kept his office and a suite of rooms. That was in the ’30s and ’40s. Later—” He cut himself off with a laugh. “Sorry. The Outfit is one of my obsessions.”
“It’s interesting stuff,” I said, filing that tidbit away for future reference. Not that it was very telling. All you had to do was look at Hollywood to know that most of the population was fascinated with organized crime.
“Architecture and real estate are my other obsessions,” he continued. “Put them together and I’m known to get carried away. The Drake is like a perfect storm. But that’s also one of the reasons I decided to stay here. This way,” he added, pushing open a door and revealing a hidden set of stairs. I eyed him curiously, but didn’t ask. And when he headed up the stairs, I obediently followed.
We emerged onto a landing for the next floor. As I followed him down the hall, I was going to ask why the elevator didn’t go this far, but he’d already unlocked the door to our destination and pushed it open. The moment I got a look inside that room—although the word “room” didn’t do it justice—all other thoughts left my head.
“Good god,” I said.
“Spectacular, isn’t it,” Tyler said, the appreciation clear in his voice.
“That pretty much sums it up.” The suite was decorated in shades of white and cream. The furniture looked old, and I assumed it had been selected to complement the hotel’s heritage. Or, for all I knew, maybe it was original. If so, it had been incredibly well-maintained.
Fresh flowers dotted all the surfaces. Artwork—mostly portraits and landscapes—hung in decorative groupings on the walls. Everything seemed rich and opulent, yet nothing seemed overdone.
“Wow,” I said.
Tyler nodded. “To be honest, it’s not my style. The architecture, yes. But my taste in furniture and interior design is more contemporary. But I can’t deny this works.”