madonna inn: Not the singer Madonna Inn

“What in the world. . .” she started as she got her first look at the place, but by the time she turned to look at him, her eyes questioning as usual, he’d already exited the car and was heading for the trunk. So yeah, this had to be their destination.

She exited the vehicle, barely remembering to grab her purse. Looking around, she thought that, if forced to go somewhere with it, she’d call this a German or Swiss fairy lodge, the difference being that instead of following just one motif, it included too many, at least she thought so. Right in front of her was a round brown-thatched structure seemingly made out of rocks, with a similar wing flowing to the right. Extending the wing, though going above the road in a way she’d seen in small German towns, was a mouth-watering representation of what the house of the witch in the Hansel und Gretel story musta looked like. In the other direction from the lobby there was more of an English Tutor feel to the building, complimented by the small garden in front of it.

Taking out her tiny digital camera and setting it for wide angle, she tried her best to encompass the whole thing, but failed, so she reminded herself to do it before they left tomorrow, then concentrated on the juxtaposition of the cobbled-together-rock chimney and the cupola on top of the main building.

“It’s unusual, all right,” she sighed when she felt him behind her, “but it better be good too.”

“I thought you said you could be romantic anywhere.”

“There ya go with that perfect memory again,” she groused. “But if that’s true, then why here?”

“You’ll have enough time to figure it out for yourself.”

“Cop-out.”

“You’re the one who claims to like surprises.”

“Hmmm. Why do I get the feeling you’re gonna enjoy the hotel more than you’re gonna enjoy me?”

“Silly blonde. You’re the fire of my desire. . . or words to that effect.”

“I’m such a pushover for poetic words,” she sighed.

“Yeah, that’s the reason.”

She jabbed him in the ribs for that, but gently. On the one hand, he’d treated her so nicely in playing along with her sexual fantasies on the drive up, but on the other she’d promised him a massage to soothe any and all aches and pains, so she figured she might as well give him as many bruises as she could now.

Letting him go ahead and take care of the checking-in business, she turned to see the landscape on which this hotel was built before going inside, wanting to be in the right mood, whatever that might be.

“Welcome to the Madonna Inn, ma’am,” an obviously smitten bellboy grinned. “Ladies’ Boutique is that way.”

She grinned and gave him an extra tip, knowing her boy wouldn’t be happy with the kid giving her shopping locales. She even patted him on the shoulder, glad to see someone besides herself blush for a chance. Although hers showed itself again, as she remembered her fantasy of teaching a teenager about sex. Of course the usual dream involved a girl, but obviously this was close enough to get her subconscious mind racing.

Barely refraining from giving the guy a spank on the ass, she turned her thoughts to the more usual type of female addiction, shopping. Though with the interior decorated in an even weirder fashion--

No. Shopping first, introspection later. Looking over that way and seeing her lover still busy at the front desk, if that was indeed what it was, she skipped in the direction her possibly future bellboy lover told her, glad she wasn’t wearing heels, which made skipping very difficult, she’d found to her detriment in the past.

And then she noticed the ladies’ boutique was called “My Favorite Things,” which instantly got her singing, especially since there was no room left to skip. Trying to ignore the garishly rose-painted carpet, she let her eyes skim over the goodies, not just clothes, for what seemed like an hour but was really only five minutes, then felt guilty at leaving her sex toy alone for so long.

“I’m coming back when I’m not so tired,” she grinned at the sales gal, who made the awesome blonde promise before letting her go. No doubt the manager would want some photos of her gracing the catalog and/or website, the blonde mused as she walked out, almost thinking of going to the men’s store to get him something, but again, later.

Just from simply seeing the exterior and the lobby, she couldn’t help but wonder what awaited her in their room. It was just too bad she wouldn’t be allowed to look at all one hundred and nineteen of them, if the sign in the corridor was up to date. Then, shaking her blonde ditzy-looking head, she set her eyes on the front desk so nothing else would distract her until she got there.

And was instantly greeted with, “They want you to sign in too.” Though from his eye-rolling, she figured he wasn’t happy about it. So, not bothering to think it through, she signed in as “Doris Filigree,” a name she’d used before, but never under such hilarious circumstances.

Handing the pen back to the desk clerk turned out to be the wrong thing to do, for he took hold of her hand and bowed low over it, his experienced eyes expertly appraised the swell of her breasts as he murmured, “Enchante, Mam’selle.”

The blonde flashed her obligatory dazzling smile while making a mental note to keep close check on the buttons of her clothing, lest she give him any more views and/or ideas. It was tough to realize she hadn’t gotten used to it even at this late stage in her life.

Then she remembered she was still baring her midriff and nine-tenths of her legs, and holding all her noteworthy body parts in a very sexy manner as she leaned on the counter. Oops.

Still, this guy wasn’t inspiring any fantasies like the bellboy did, so she saw no reason to reward him with even the hint of a flash. And later, if they were still on duty, she’d make sure to flirt with the young bellboy in front of this jerk.

Well, no need to ruminate on that, or anything at all, right now. Instead she reached for the brochure listing all the room names while the menfolk finished the paperwork. She found herself wondering how many decades ago--before the internet company came into existence--these guys had come up with Yahoo, but dismissed it equally quickly. There were some obvious ones: Cloud Nine, Just Heaven, Hearts & Flowers, and Bridal Falls, plus overly cute sets like Ren, Dez, and Vous, and Merry, Go and Round. Other names weren’t as interesting, but she was sure the décor was. Still, she hoped they weren’t heading for Caveman Room, Jungle Rock, Highway Suite, or Utility Room. . .

He’d had many of the same thoughts when he’d been looking through the internet site, trying to choose a room. For instance, she could certainly pass for a Suthin blonde “Daisy Mae,” especially with the hair style she’d been sporting earlier--not to mention those short shorts--and no doubt could pull off an “Austrian” mountain beauty, but neither room was really suggestive of their names, according to the photos; Daisy Mae, as a matter of fact, was a cave. “Romance” would have been good, but not so early in the relationship. Of course that had been back when he’d made the reservation, and things had certainly changed since, but she didn’t need to hear that.

And then, finally, after perusing every single room, he found “Swiss Belle.”

But being a prudent youngster, he’d written down a note with a grin, as well as a pencil; in case he ever brought another girl to this place, he didn’t want to get the same room.

During all the signing-in nonsense someone had taken their bags up to the room, so their walk through the corridors was quick and easy, and just a few minutes later they were getting their first glimpse of their one-night abode.

She spent the next ten minutes gaping, giving him sufficient time to unpack, have some stuff ready to wear for dinner later, and. . . watch her, waiting for some no-doubt magical reactions for him to shoot.

Finally out of her funk, she went over to one of the rock walls and carefully banged a fist against it, wincing as she scraped her knuckles. “Yep, that’s the real thing. I wish I was a redhead.”

Eyebrows shot up, but he was grinning as he said, “So do I. But why do you?”

A little wince at the way he’d turned that around, but she tried very hard not to let it show. “So you can call me Wilma, silly.”

“If I remember your nipples correctly, I can call you Pebbles.”

“Ha! So you fantasize about the young ones too, huh?”

“Sick! If you call me Bam-Bam. . . and speaking of the medium in question. . .” Since she was tall enough for it to matter, he pointed to the small TV dangling from the roof presently right above her and just waiting to bang into her head.

“Nice touch,” she grinned, then waited for him to make a hospital joke at the expense of her really-I-mean-it natural boobs.

He didn’t, which was okay with her, but on the other hand she didn’t like him acting like he wasn’t listening to her, and looking at something other than her. She couldn’t stand being ignored by anyone--being treated like she didn’t matter was the scariest thing in her life--but even less by lovers, especially when she was sure they were about to get to it. . . any second now. . . I didn’t wear him out on the mountain, did I?. . .

“Honey?” she finally whined.

“Hmmm?”

“Where did you go?”

“Sorry, I was thinking about something. . .”

“When I’m right here?” Gawd, I’m one of those women! she moaned inwardly.

“You’re not worried I don’t appreciate your beauty, are you?”

“What? Gawd no! That’s not it at all. Oh, gawd.” She was blushing nicely.

He chuckled. “I just said that to see you blush. Thanks.”

She stayed silent, which was okay with her because she really didn’t have a comeback this time.

“Anyway, you said ‘That’s not it at all,’ which implies there’s something. You can’t get away with saying, ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’”

“You read minds?” she laughed.

“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking,” he pointed out.

“Don’t beat it to death,” she sighed, the perked right back up when he wrapped his arms around her for a deep kiss. Finally! she whooped inwardly.

Still cradling her in his arms, he lifted a hand and turned her head gently toward the sunlight which poured through the window, then ran his fingertips down along one small flat ear and then past, following the line of her neck and shoulders. “That curve. I’ve got to get it on photo.”

She smiled at the way he’d put that, but was a well-behaved model, so she didn’t move until he told her to. She couldn’t help smiling, though, when he told her that in this light her hair was the color of honey. For the moment, he somehow made her forget about sex!

And suddenly he was back, so close he’d need a macro lens to use that camera. She turned her head to him expectantly.

Kissing her lightly, just a feathery touch that made her grin, he asked her if she’d like for him to call her Doris.

She did her usual gawking thing for a moment, then laughed. “You shouldn’t have given away the fact that you can read upside down until it was worth more to ya.”

“Once in a while I like to toss ya a freebie.”

She pursed her lips at his use of the last word, but didn’t make it worse. Trying for a holding maneuver, not wanting to lose any more ground, she asked, “Is this what marriage with you would be like?”

“Why would I want to get married?” He sounded completely serious, to her amazement. “Why make one woman miserable when I can make many so happy?”

After the appropriate laugh, she suddenly got snuggly. “Being miserable with you is more than happiness with most men,” she tried in a quiet tone.

Snort. “Did you hear there’s an opening in advertising?”

A guffaw came out involuntarily, which pissed her off more than his words. She just couldn’t seem to keep in the mood.

Turning her head, trying to ignore the color of the bed sheets, she smirked, “King-size, baby. They’ve heard about us. Come here. . .” Leading him by the leash, so to speak, she sat on the bed and quickly pulled his pants open.

“So soon?” he grinned, still playing with her.

She almost growled back that she could hold out longer than he, but not only was it not true, it would have been the dumbest thing she’d ever done in her life. Thinking it would teach him a lesson, she bent right down and took



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His attempt to hold out wasn’t any more successful than her imagined one, so in practically no time he was groaning, “Take your clothes off, baby. . . unless you want me to rip them off, caveman-style.”

“Hmm. . .”

Another moan. “You’re like the Witch of Endor.”

“Witch of what?” she finally gasped when she could.

“Endor. The Ewok moon in Return of the Jedi.”



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Yawning, he dressed slowly, knowing there was no way she’d be finished before him even at a glacier’s pace. Deciding to spend the time checking out the room’s detail, he grabbed his pants and chose a direction, then walked over there and looked closely.

His first target turned out to be the window, which in this place was of course no ordinary window. He wasn’t sure it could be called stained glass, because it looked damn thick, and didn’t have bright colors, but quickly he left that alone and concentrated on the scene, which depicted Swiss-looking cows and a flower that he thought he might have seen in those same Alps. Considering the room was Swiss Belle, the chances of that were pretty good.

“Leaded glass!” she delighted when he called her over to have a gawk. “Love it!”

Next to her leg was a rock outcropping jutting out of the wall which served as a small table, looking appropriately weird but also fun-funky. He followed that up to the roof, where he saw wooden beams the likes of which might have been spawned in a beerhouse, leading to a seemingly sparse-looking chandelier. Not as fun to shoot, he mused, wondering how many misses he’d see in this room, compared to genuine fun hits.

“Hey, the bathroom’s not rock!” came the singsongy voice from the other room.

“What is it?”

Sounding surprised, she shouted, “Pretty floral wallpaper!”

Oh well. He wondered if he should save the rest of the room for later, now that she’d made it to the bathroom stage, then grinned and quickly put on his shirt and jacket. There, that put him way ahead again, and he’d ask her to tie his boots so he could save his back, so he might as well take a gander at the bed and behind it.

The headboard was a surprising shade of green, and looked to be cut in the shape of a cactus, of all things. Not very Swiss there, he sighed, counting it as a miss despite liking it. Then, to his surprise, he heard her lilting voice behind him whisper, “That’s gonna make some noise when you’re on top.” She sounded remarkably confident, so he glanced over, only to see her still looking innocent, as she liked to do.

“You didn’t hear it while you were going spastic on top, did ya?”

“I wasn’t listening for it,” she dismissed easily, then wandered over to the table next to the bed, but completely missed the good part: the old fashioned chair with heart cutouts. Once he pointed it out, she demanded he shoot it, which he did, somehow managing to get her into the shot.

“Okay, time for the last touches before dinner,” she smiled falsely. “No, not those kind of touches, you swine! Don’t make me have to start over.” She sat in the aforementioned chair and reached for her accoutrements, staring into the mirror before realizing, with much delight, that there were hotel brochures on the table.

“The motel is a monument of unremitting, flamboyant kitsch,” she quoted in her most giggly tone, which was saying a lot. “Alp exterior, Swiss country with a gingerbread fairy motif, lavish pink rooms. . . A twenty-eight-foot fake gold tree! We need to find that! One room features a replica of a moonshiner's still. . . Ooo, I want that one next time!”

She went on in this vein for a while, amusing him with her comments. She was a lot smarter than she looked, or let on, but he saw through it, which was why she liked him--she admitted that was weird, but nonetheless true, and refused to explain further.

A particularly high-pitched squeak brought a last minute high point before the end of the fun, for now anyway. “The rock waterfall urinal is a fixture along California’s Central Coast. Many tourists come to visit the urinal, to the embarrassment of males who genuinely need to use the facilities.”

“I’ll try to get you in to see it,” he smirked. “I know how you love that stuff.”

“Waterfalls, or dicks?”

“Both.”

She batted extra-length lashes. “How could you know me so well so quickly?”

“Probably cuz you’re easy to read.”

“Yeah, that’s the reason,” she mimicked, laughing. Then she sat there quietly, almost shyly, as she watched him watch her in the mirror.



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He reminded himself to wrap an arm around her so she wouldn’t bump into anything as she thought about it on the way to dinner. And also so she wouldn’t be distracted by the trademarked--really!--Pepto-Bismol-like-pink color scheme, though that was a lot worse for him.

Which was the only reason his eyes didn’t pop out when they reached the dining room, since compared to that nauseating shade of pink, the pomegranate décor--for lack of a better word--was a thin slice of heaven. They managed to be seated and pick up their menus without a comment on their surroundings, but only just.

Before checking for food she instinctively glanced at the prices, gulped, and bit the bullet. “I’m not your typical kinda girl--”

He rolled his eyes.

“Not that. I just didn’t expect these prices. If I order the most expensive item--”

“We’ve already done just about everything, what else could I expect?”

Laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. I just felt it was better to say it.”

He reached for her hand. “I like you for saying it, but go ahead and order anything you want, even if it wasn’t someone else paying for it.”

“Really?” Hmmm. . . well, she’d save that discussion for later. Seeing the wide-eyed waiter, who looked a lot like the bellboy but not quite enough, was caught in her gravitational pull, she waved him over. “What’s the difference between the French filet mignon and the plain version?”

Ignoring Logan’s chuckle at a thirty-dollar steak being called plain, the waiter smiled and told her, “The French version is aged and comes wrapped in bacon.”

“Wow,” Logan muttered, “bacon making something French. That’s a new one.”

In the end, knowing she’d likely never get the chance again, remembering what he’d said about someone else paying, and liking the Land Down Under, she went with the broiled Australian lobster tails. “Imagine how much I’d have to put out for that one,” she giggled, making the waiter’s eyebrows hide in his hair while Logan checked and saw the dish was north of sixty dollars.

“Lucky guy,” the waiter whispered under his breath after taking Logan’s order of the French filet mignon--sans sauce and mushrooms--and walking away, neglecting to tell her she coulda gotten both the filet mignon and lobster tail for a combined special price. Oh well.

Done with the most important part, so far, he stretched and looked around the room, checking the décor for anything not-red, and of course she got it wrong.

“Go ahead and stare at that waitress.” Mock yawn. “I’m confident.”

“Too much. She is my type, the innocent brunette--”

“Shut up.”

“Uh uh. Remember after you went all drooly over that guy? I get a free pass--”

“Yeah yeah, I remember.”

“Hmmm. I’m gonna spank you tonight.”

Smirk. “How do you know I don’t like that?”

“I didn’t say where.”

That worried her for the next few minutes, until the waitress in question passed nearby again and smiled at him. So she actually didn’t stop worrying, just switched it to something else. “How would you feel if I got into a bitchy contest with her?” she asked morosely.

“I would think much less of you.”

“Damn! You know, you’re less fun of a boyfriend than I thought at first.”

“Not my fault you set such unreasonably high expectations of everyone. . . except yourself.” He smiled at the waitress again.

She managed to make it through the next few minutes without losing any points, but that was mostly because she didn’t speak. But now that she had a better target, she went back on the playful attack. . .

“Now, the menu promised one full pound of incredibly sweet and succulent rock lobster tail, so I hope I don’t have to weigh this.”

The waiter grinned like she was just joshin’, but didn’t hang around when Logan warned her she’d have to weigh it now before she started eating. “Or was your point that there could be two pounds of tail, as long as one full pound is sweet and succulent?”

“Two pounds of tail!” she woofed. “Your autobiography?”

“Certainly not yours.”

“You said my ass was bubbly and you loved it!”

“I’ll be sure to check it carefully when I spank you.”

“You said that wasn’t where you were going to spank me!”

“That’ll just be the warmup, and I mean that literally, considering the last time I did that was with this redhead in Lapland--”

“That’s awes! I wanna go to Sweden--”

“Not the frozen part.”

“No, the moderately warmer southern area. See if I have any distant cousins that look like me. . . though of course not quite as hot as me.”

“That’s asking a lot.”

“I make my Swedish ancestors proud,” she smirked.

“No way,” he laughed. “You’re American, not Swedish. If I told you how far you had to go to match up to Swedish girls, you would faint from despair.”

“Is that any way for a gentleman to talk to his mistress?” she wailed. “You’re supposed to boost my confidence and--”

“Any more boosting of your arrogance and you’d be too high on a pedestal to reach you.”

She pretended to agree to that.

“Besides, you once said you needed me to keep you grounded.”

That caused a wince. “What have I told you about remembering everything I say?”

“That it’s what makes you love me?”

Her laugh indicated she’d given up on that score, but didn’t prevent her from saying, “And now you’re going to say something nice. . .” Her eyebrows added their own prompting.

“You are like cappuccino,” he crooned, grinning when he saw she was buying it. “Hot, steamy. . .” Waiting for her to enjoy the thought, he quickly added, “Overpriced.”

“Oh, mortal wound! You want me to return the lobster?”

“That’d be pretty gross, considering you’ve eaten half of it.”

Sighing, she reached into her purse, simply as a way to show her irritation. She’d brought some brochures along, in case the conversation lagged, but this seemed as good a place as any, for she couldn’t let him think she wasn’t miffed. Yeah, it sure was complicated being her, she sighed. “Anybody can build one room and a thousand like it. I want people to come in with a smile and leave with a smile. It’s fun. What fun do you think Paul Getty got out of his life? Now that is pure genius,” she grinned.

He looked around at the décor one more time, then shrugged, but was smiling, so she counted it as a win and made a lazy wave toward the waiter, who was there in less than a flash to take her dessert order.

“Hey!” came the sudden yelp, making him think she’d changed her mind as to dessert choice. “It says here there’s a room with a thirty-three-foot-long sofa! I gotta see that!”

“I remember that. It’s in some huge suite-type thing, with an upstairs second bedroom and a bar and such.”

“I can always use that,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Keep an extra guy up there for when I need him.”

“And here I had it pictured as you taking both guys at once.”

She pretended surprise. “I’m already doing two. . . though I supposed I could do all three at a time.”

“That’s my hard-working girl. You want to invite the waiter and the bellboy?”

“This may shock you,” she laughed, “But I actually don’t sleep with a guy I just met.”

He tried to look surprised. “Wow, never thought you’d be a prude in anything.”

Luckily her foot missed its intended target under the table. “It’s not for any moral reasons, numbnuts, since I don’t have any morals. I just have to like him first.”

His face told her he knew she was fibbing, so her smile--and her foot rubbing his shin, gently this time--thanked him for not going there. But not too much, for instead he tried, “But girls you can do right away, right?”

She moaned at that. “When did I sell my soul to you, you devilish bastard?”

“Probably that time you went to the 99 cent store.”

“Oooo, nasty.” She was still semi-chortling and yet also dramatizing her eyebrows as she slurped up the remains of her dessert, and was just figuring a new plan of attack when the “Excuse me” from the next table somehow managed to worm its way into her thoughts.

Going all dainty like the fine natural actress she was, she napkined her mouth delicately, then singsonged even more than usual, “Yes, you had a question or comment?”

That threw the man for a moment, but he was into his own thing now. “I just bought this ring for my girlfriend, and I was wondering what you thought about it. I don’t know anything about jewelry, so--”

Squeal. “You’re gonna propose to her right now?” Then she gasped and looked at the other end of the table, only to find it empty. Then she realized he wouldn’t have asked her had the girl been there, so duh.

“She went to the restroom,” Logan whispered, just to make her feel even more stupid.

And making her miss the hilarious way the guy looked around at the décor in distaste. “No, of course not. This was her idea. I’ve got a perfect spot picked out. But do you think she’ll like the ring?”

She had no way of knowing that, but figured he meant something more general. “Yeah, that’s plenty big enough.” Then she winced at how mercenary that made her sound. “I like both the cut and the color. You chose well, young Jedi.” By accident, no doubt.

“No wonder you’re known as ‘Queen Geek.’”

Grinning, she looked around and found them once again alone, then cooed, “I’m gonna go put on some sexy lingerie, so wait here five minutes. Anything you’d like?”

“Anything,” he sighed. “I find you sexy in burlap.”

“Damn, you’re good,” she marveled. “But it would itch.”

“At least then you’d feel something.”

“Dammit, I told you a boyfriend isn’t supposed to remember everything his girl says!”

“And risk getting smacked around for forgetting something? Can’t have it both ways, blondie.”

“Burlap it is,” she growled as she stomped out of the dining room.

Checking the brochures she’d left there, he decided to have a drink before joining her.

If the dining room was quiet and intimate, the Silver Bar seemed even more so, despite the presence of a stage in the corner. The semi-wall at the entrance looked like it was trying to be rustic Californian via the Alhambra, but with the huge red chairs at the tables . . . he wondered what color the house lights were, and whether guys thought they were getting lucky when they’d actually be faced with huge bills in the morning. . .

And why was he thinking such things now? Especially with a hot freebie waiting upstairs?

To hell with the drink.

“That was fast,” she smirked. “Couldn’t find anything easier downstairs?”

“I was holding out for the best.”

“Well,” she whispered as she slid onto his lap, “you got her now.”

Some survival instinct barely held him back from saying, “Wasn’t talking about you.”

After a while of lip- and hand-play, some little love-bites that had her groaning and revenging with her own teeth, he stood her up in front of him, undressed her slowly--loving the way she danced an impatient jig like a little girl needing the potty--and carried her to the shower, not an easy thing with the narrow door. Luckily she didn’t ouchie much.

“Oh wow,” she giggled, something finally distracting her from the pleasure generated by his hands and lips. “The shower walls are rocks! Oh!” She looked up as the first stream of water fell on her head, and she saw the place had been designed as a waterfall. Well, now I don’t have to see that urinal! she laughed inwardly, knowing this was gonna be a helluva lot more enjoyable.

“This is actually quite cool,” she giggled, running a hand over the rock wall as he ran his lips over her nipples. “Mr. Madonna said that rock is made to go together, and boy did he ever prove it! Feels like a grotto somewhere in Hawaii. . .” Then she yelped, having forgotten she was due a spanking.

“Not humid enough. On a mountain somewhere. . .”

“Stop thinking.”

“Make me. . .”

Smirking,



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“So, what’s the catch of the day?” she chirped the moment he opened his eyes the next morning.

“Bacon and eggs,” he yawned, checking his watch and seeing it was well past nine, but not close enough to ten for his liking. He did, however, like the view of her brushing her hair naked while she smirked at him.



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“You know I love you. . .” he started hesitantly.

Oh oh, she thought instinctively. “But. . .?” She wished she didn’t sound so tentative.

“But I like you better with your hair in a ponytail than this way.”

She stared for a moment, then started giggling in relief. “I thought you were going to say something else.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows went up, much better than her fake attempt last night. “Is there something I should know?”

“Of course not,” she assured him hastily as she reached for the scrunchie on her wrist to wrap her hair back in the ponytail. There was no one else in their room, but she still heard her friends and female family members guffawing inside her head.

The entrance to the coffeeshop, known in these here parts as the Copper Café, was a wooden door set in a rock wall, which was surprisingly welcome to her after last night’s dining room. She even asked for a photo there, sniffing the shrubbery hanging from above the door. Then they sat by a huge window etched in what she called a Wild Rose pattern. She also called the table tops copper, for some reason, though he didn’t see it and wasn’t about to go hunting for it. The only décor he noticed were the chairs, which had a huge cushiony seat but only skinny piping in a heart shape for back support, much like the chair in their room. She told him not to be so damned unromantic; he told her he’d need another massage tonight.

He couldn’t decide whether to try Mr. Madonna’s “Pick & Shovel” brand thick cut bacon or play it safe with pancakes and eggs, while she immediately told the girl she wanted tea stat, and the breakfast sundae as soon as possible after that. Noticing his raised eyebrows, she smirked and quoted, “A combination of sliced fruit and non-fat vanilla yogurt sprinkled with low-fat Granola.”

He looked disappointed, then, figuring he had enough meat yesterday, ordered, “I’ll have both the pancakes and eggs, though I’m surprised the eggs cost more.”

“I have no reply for that,” the waitress grinned after asking how he wanted the eggs.

“You’re smarter than you look,” he told her seriously, then rolled his eyes at the blonde. She pretended to be miffed as the waitress giggled and walked away.

“She’ll remember us,” he told her. “Bet our order comes quickly.”

Sighing, she proclaimed, “Then it was worth the sacrifice of my dignity.” Her beaming eyes warned him not to say the obvious on that one.

Yet somehow he managed to drink his orange juice while conveying the thought.

“Stupid rock shower,” she grumbled as she placed her knuckles against the cold glass of water on the table.

“You weren’t complaining last night. How bad?”

“I wont be playing the piano any time soon.”

“I’ve heard you play. It’s for the best.”

She nodded, expecting it, but was still diva enough to try an “Oh, do be quiet” in her best royal tone, then suddenly remembered the champagne bottle from last night. Eyes wide, she wondered, “Whatever happened to it?” but he assured her it was packed in the luggage, though not likely to be very fresh by the time it was opened.

“So I’ll lick it off you,” she purred, then asked if his allergy extended to the skin too. He said he didn’t want to find out.

While she went off to the ladies room, or more likely trying to peek into the men’s, he checked his messages.



DELETED



Feeling quite happy now, to the point of indulging whatever little thing she wanted for at least the next hour--not counting sex, not till the skin grew back--he waited for her by the bakery, her diet be damned.

Knowing he couldn’t resist anything cinnamon, and having permission by its name to be as rough with the pastry as he wanted, he seriously thought of going with the cinnamon pull-aparts as she singsonged that most of Europe was represented, with French cream puffs and Danish pastries, for example. And of course she had to continue the theme by whispering, “What’s Black Forest cake?”

“Lots of cream with cherries, sometimes alcoholic cherries.”

“Really?” She smiled lewdly, then remembered his allergy again and sighed. “Nothing here is calling to me.”

He sighed and looked at his watch. “I’ll give you five minutes to check out the store with the chocolates.”

Eyes wide, she waited. He pointed; she dashed.

“Now I get to choose the pastries,” he told the grinning baker.


Source: travbuddy.com