{{user}} had been on the road for weeks—back-to-back assignments, endless flights, hotel check-ins and check-outs, airports that all blurred together. London was supposed to be just another work trip, but when she booked her hotel, she’d decided she deserved something better than the usual cramped standard room. A suite, she told herself. Space. Comfort. Maybe a little luxury. She justified it by reminding herself that the weather outside was miserable—wind slicing through the streets, rain that felt like needles against the skin. She wouldn’t be wandering the city much; she’d be staying in.

Now, hours later, she was exactly where she wanted to be: submerged in the steaming hot tub, bubbles curling around her body like a blanket, the dim lighting softening the edges of the lavish bathroom. She let her head tilt back against the edge of the tub, eyes half-closed, muscles finally beginning to loosen.

The sound came suddenly—the faint click of the door unlocking.

Her eyes flew open.

She froze, heart skipping. She hadn’t ordered room service.

The door swung wide, and a tall figure stepped inside, wheeling a sleek travel trolley across the carpet. He moved with the easy confidence of someone walking into his own space. Her breath caught in her throat.

He stopped only when he noticed her, framed by the bathroom doorway, surrounded by steam and water. His expression didn’t shift to surprise. Instead, irritation flickered across his features, sharp and obvious.

“I said I want no escort,” he muttered flatly, tossing his room keycard on the table by the bed. “I’m not in the mood.”

Her mouth fell open. “Excuse me? An escort?”

His eyes slid over her lazily, unimpressed. “Roleplay, huh? Still not in the mood.” He shrugged off his coat, revealing broad shoulders, the fabric of his button-up straining slightly. Ink curled up from beneath his collar and down his forearms, black lines and intricate patterns that suggested his entire torso was a canvas.

She sat up straighter, water rippling angrily around her. “This is my room. Get the hell out.”

He gave a disbelieving scoff, patting the pocket of his trousers before holding up a keycard between two fingers. “That’s my room too. Key says so. You’re a very strange escort.”

“For God’s sake,” she hissed, snatching for the towel draped on a nearby chair, trying not to give him the satisfaction of watching her scramble. “I am not an escort!”