ERIN HADN’T TOUCHED HIM ALL WEEK, NOT SINCE Monday at Rudolpho’s. There’d been no after-midnight sex since they’d returned from Orlando. But since Wednesday, sexual tension seemed to sizzle between them, permeating every word, every look. At least it did for him. Dominic lay flat on his back on the hotel bed, naked, hands stacked beneath his head, staring at the ceiling made of swirled plaster accented with a small teardrop chandelier. The mattress was high off the floor, the comforter thick, the pillows down. It wasn’t a big high-rise San Francisco hotel right on Union Square, but it was expensive, exclusive, and luxurious. Erin had chosen well. Over the past two days, she’d sent him a laundry list of instructions. He’d followed every one to the letter. He’d driven to the city by himself, showered, shaved, cranked up the wall heater, and laid on the bed completely naked. She hadn’t said he couldn’t improvise, so he brought champagne for her, a couple of bottles of beer for himself, and two glasses.
