Where the hell is this guy?

* * *

Awakening to a loud, high-pitched female cackle coming from the living room, I sit up, immediately feeling my cheeks, forehead, and the corners of my mouth pulling unnaturally tight. Dammit. I had fallen asleep with the mud mask on my face.

“Shit,” I hiss through my teeth.

Another loud cackle, followed by giggling, then music. Loud music.

Boyz II Men, seriously?

I pat the top of my blanket until I find my phone, dragging it to my face to see what time it is. Midnight. This asshole arrived at midnight, with company! Blasting shity music like he’s staying here alone?! He’s made no attempt to introduce himself… Then, then, the music gets louder. I scoot off the edge of the bed, struggling to contain my rage, and stomp through the door, toward the living room.

When I reach the end of the hallway, the scene in front of me turns the heat boiling my blood up at least ten degrees.

In the kitchen, a man, clad in black suit pants and a white dress shirt with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, is pressing a woman against the counter with his body. His face is buried in her undressed tits, and another woman is behind him, rubbing her French-manicured fingers up his back, down his sides, around to his chest, then into his pants.

Oh. My. God.

This piece of shit is about to have an orgy in the kitchen of our—no, mine and Sondra’s—suite. He likes his women like he likes his creams… in abundance.

I hate him already.

I clear my throat loudly over the ridiculous R&B music, expecting them to stop once they’ve realized they’re not alone. But they don’t.

I clear my throat louder, announcing my presence over the moans, grunts, and cheesy saxophone solo.

Little Miss Tits Out leans to the side, peeking around Aleck’s broad back. She makes eye contact with me, then rolls her eyes. Rolls. Her. Eyes.

She taps Aleck on the shoulder. “Um, I think your roommate is pissed,” she says as he moves his mouth from her tits to her neck.

Smart girl.

“I don’t care.” His deep male voice, muffled by her skin, makes the rage in my blood push my legs forward.

“Excuse me?” I say, taking a few steps toward them.

The woman behind Aleck unbuttons his pants and starts to push them down as if I don’t exist.

“Hey, asshole! Want to give me a minute of your time before you contract herpes in the kitchen of a suite you’re not even paying for?!”

A male chuckle fills the room before he lifts his head, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then turns around to face me.

Jane Austen’s ghost!

Aleck stands to his full height at about six-three, maybe four. His crisp white collared shirt is unbuttoned, revealing abs so defined I could roll a golf ball between them. His pants—thanks to the woman who’s now lazily picking at her fingernails with a look of sheer boredom at my presence—are hanging just below the elastic of his underwear. Which I now know are black boxer briefs. A thin patch of dark brown hair under his navel disappears below his waistband into the abyss of what I can only assume is a magnitude of pure man.