“Your hands are warm.” Jamie’s voice had gone soft, almost wondering. “Like... really warm.”
A quiet huff of laughter escaped as Sloane clicked the belt into place. “All the better to buckle you in with.”
“That’s not how the story goes.” Jamie’s eyes had gone heavy-lidded, head tilting back against the headrest. “The wolf's supposed to have big teeth.”
“Maybe later.” Sloane started to pull back, but Jamie caught his wrist. Not hard, just a whisper of contact.
“You smell good.” The words slurred together. “Like... trees. And leather. And...” Jamie’s eyes drifted shut. “Safety.”
The last word came out so quiet Sloane almost missed it. By the time he processed it, Jamie’s breathing had evened out, mouth slightly parted in sleep.
Perfect. His mate had passed out without mentioning an address.
Sloane pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Ash's number. The bartender picked up on the second ring.
“Frosty Pine,” Ash said when he answered.
“It’s Sloane. Jamie’s out cold, and I've got no idea where he lives. Do you?”
Ash's pause stretched long enough that Sloane could hear glasses clinking in the background. “Sorry. Can’t help you there. He comes in regular but never mentions where home is. Did you check his pockets?”
Sloane studied his sleeping mate then carefully patted him down. Nothing. No wallet in the back pockets either, just a phone that required a passcode.
“Thanks anyway.” He ended the call and stood, considering options. There was only one. He would have to take Jamie home to the pack house. His mate was going to freak out when he sobered up. Flirting with a “mysterious stranger at midnight” was a far cry from waking up in the stranger’s bed with no memory of how he’d gotten there.
Sloane was already getting a migraine just thinking about his mate’s reaction.
Chapter Three
Something cool brushed Jamie’s cheek.
He jerked awake with a sharp inhale, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape. Darkness swam around him before resolving into faint shapes—a ceiling fan, shadows crawling along the walls, the soft hum of something electrical.
Not his room.
Not his ceiling.
Not his bed.
His breathing spiked. Jamie scrambled upright so fast he lost his balance and nearly fell from the bed. His jacket tugged awkwardly at his shoulders as if reminding him he’d never taken it off. His arm throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache where William had grabbed him. The pain shot through him like a memory he wanted to forget.
Rotating it didn’t help, so he rubbed the area gently while his gaze darted around, attempting to absorb everything.
Where the hell was he?
The space was too tidy and ultra masculine. Dark walls, clean lines, furniture that looked expensive in a subtle, “I’m not trying, I’m just hot and competent” kind of way. A faint scent lingered in the sheets beneath him. Cedar, clean musk, something warm and alive. And familiar.
Oh god!
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Fragments of last night flickered through his mind. Broad shoulders at the bar, bluish-gray eyes watching him like he was something worth studying.
“Sloane,” he whispered, the name escaping like a confession.
Jamie pressed his palms against his eyelids until he saw stars. Please tell me I didn’t go home with him. Please tell me I didn’t strip. Please tell me I didn’t—
Looking down, he saw that he was still clothed. Jacket, pants, shoes gone but socks still on. The hangover hammered behind his eyes, but at least he hadn’t completely humiliated himself.
Small mercies.
