Trillion - Winter Renshaw Page 0,88

partners—and a third of those men have had over one hundred.”

Once again … numbers don’t lie.

“Why’d you come here then?” he asks.

“Because drinking alone in my hotel room on my birthday would’ve been a new low for me.” This time, I don’t lie to this stranger. I have no reason to. Besides, stating anything other than this would be lying to myself.

I take full responsibility for not doing my research on this bar. I also take full responsibility for not walking out the door the instant I set foot in here and immediately overheard a couple of guys talking about how this was the “hottest hook up bar on Washington street.”

This place is walking distance from my hotel—and by walking distance, I mean it’s practically connected. Their walls are sandwiched together on a busy strip of downtown street, the New York City skyline in the distance and the faint stench of the Hudson River infused into every breath.

I stay in this neighborhood every time I travel here for work.

It’s familiar. I know what to expect.

I toss back the final few milliliters of my pinot and place the goblet on my cardboard coaster before sliding it away.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

I meet his gaze. My breath catches in my chest with the gusto of a silly school girl with a two-second crush. Heat blankets my body.

If I were an adventurous woman, his mouth would be on mine by now. My fingers would be deep in his sandy hair. We’d be going at it in the bathroom, his back against the door to keep unsuspecting patrons from barging in. Or maybe they would barge in, but we’d be going at it so hard we wouldn’t notice or care. Maybe when it’s over, we’d sprint to my hotel room for round two followed by breakfast in bed and round three in the morning. We’d go our own ways, sore and satisfied, and I’d file the entire encounter away in my memory.

But I’m not that girl.

And I’ll never be.

I rise from the bar stool and collect my things. “Thank you for the drink. And for your honesty. It’s refreshing.”

He chews the inside of his lower lip, studying me. “So you’re just going to go back to your hotel room now? Spend the rest of your birthday alone?”

I offer a surrendering shrug and lift my brows. “Yep.”

“Where’d you get those numbers? Those statistics?” he asks.

“On one night stands?”

He nods.

“I don’t know … some article I read a few years back. Why?”

“Because they’re bullshit.” His eyes glint. “I’m not in the forty-percent, I can tell you that. And I can promise you, I last a hell of a lot longer than seven minutes. And there’s nothing I love more than making a woman come—whether it’s on my cock, my fingers, or my tongue.”

My throat constricts around the words attempting to come out, and I almost choke on them. Heat blankets my skin before settling between my thighs, and I’d love nothing more than an icy burst of February air right about now.

His words are a sharp and unexpected contrast against his reserved, gentlemanly exterior.

“It’s too bad.” He bites his lip, looks me up and down, and leans in. “Was really looking forward to tasting that heart-shaped mouth of yours tonight. Amongst other things …”

For a few endless seconds, I consider taking him back to my room. I contemplate throwing caution to the wind like confetti. I deliberate whether or not I would hate myself for it in the morning.

Lastly, I calculate the risk factors.

I cinch my hand around my purse strap and pull in a deep breath. “Good luck with … tonight. And thank you again for the wine.”

I don’t wait for him to respond, and as soon as my heels hit cement sidewalk outside, I release the breath I’d been harboring.

I’m several yards closer to my hotel’s entrance when a man behind me yells, “Hey!”

Dozens of people litter the sidewalk. It could be anyone calling after anyone.

“Hey!” The voice is closer now, along with the soft trump of dress shoes scuffing concrete.

I steal a look from my periphery, and come to a complete stop when I realize it’s the guy from the bar, and he’s chasing after me. But before I have a chance to react or concoct some worst-case-scenario situation in my mind—he hands me my phone.

“You forgot this,” he says. Our fingers brush in the exchange. Our moonlit gazes hold for what feels like forever.

Clearing my throat, I force out a quick, “Thank you.”

He