Portia tucked the sheet tighter around her body and placed her hand in his. Ignoring the tingles where their skin touched, she planted her feet on the ground.
He pulled her upright so effortlessly that she fell forward against his chest. His body was warm where they pressed together. It felt so good. She’d been cold for so long.
Ever since the bombing.
That unwelcome reminder of who she was snapped her out of the cozy feelings.
She pulled her hand free and took a careful step back. Gathering the excess sheet in one fist, she backed away further. Once she could breathe without his scent—his warmth—clouding her thoughts, Portia gathered the rigid control by which she lived her life and donned it like a familiar outfit. It was hard to radiate authority wrapped in a sheet, but she tried her damnedest.
“I should be going.” Somehow, she managed to keep her voice steady when her whole world had been shaken by the fact that she’d slept with someone who wasn’t Tommy.
Tommy’s death had destroyed her. In the bright light of day, last night’s impulsiveness threatened the fragile foundation she’d painstakingly rebuilt in the months since.
Aleks studied her intently. His look of concern lightened, but didn’t ease completely. “Do you need a ride?”
“I can call for a car.” They’d come to the hotel in a taxi. No one expected Portia Tremaine to leave a shadowy bar with a one-night stand, so she hadn’t worried anyone would recognize her last night. This morning was a different story. She wanted—no,needed—to keep her identity under wraps. But who did she call to do that?
“Okay.” He turned away to grab a robe.
She should have spent the time considering her options. Instead, her attention focused on the rippling of his back muscles. His taut glutes. Her fingers clenched as a memory of gripping them tightly as he’d rocked into her flared to life.
Heat pooled between her legs.
“Is there anything you need? Coffee? A shower?”
His question jerked her out of her reverie and she barely managed to keep from mentioning a cold shower. Even covered by the robe, he was distracting.
Embarrassed to be caught staring, she shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ll get out of your hair.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something. Closed it again.
She looked around for her clothes.
“You remember what we did last night, right, Portia?”
Heat raced up her cheeks. “Yes. Ohmigod, yes. I remember.” She hated that her pale skin blushed so damn easily. Usually, she could control it better than this.
His voice was gruff when he spoke. “I wasn’t sure. You jumped out of bed like you didn’t.”
The fog of sleep and waking up in another man’s arms had thrown her earlier. Even with the gorgeous evidence standing in front of her, she still couldn’t quite wrap her head around that decision.
“I hadn’t been with anyone since my husband.” She’d never been with anyone but Tommy.
His gaze dropped to her left hand.
She held out her hand, more for her than for him, as she stared at her bare ring finger. “Widowed,” she said quietly. They’d cut the ring off when they raced her to the hospital after the bombing. When they’d informed her that Tommy was dead, she hadn’t bothered getting it repaired. The pieces were tucked away in her jewelry box, a tangible reminder of her broken heart.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgment. She’d run out of responses months ago.
“Can I do anything for you?” His lips pressed into a firm line and his eyes had lost their sparkle.
She had the completely irrational desire to make him smile again. But how? How did people navigate a morning after? She’d completely ruined this one and there wouldn’t be another. Couldn’t be. “I should go,” she said abruptly.
He nodded, then disappeared into the suite’s sitting room. When he returned a moment later, he held her clothes.
Cheeks flaming, Portia tucked the sheet tightly under her arm and reached for the pile of clothing. Then, as regally as she could, she swiveled on the tasteful hotel carpet and hastened into the bathroom.
