“You’re trouble.” My slurred, flirting voice is cringe as fuck when played back in my head.
“Good trouble.” My brother’s best friend, Stringer’s lips tilt in a slow, knowing smile. “For one night only.”
Oh, shit. My eyes snap open. An unfamiliar ceiling blurs into focus. I’m not sure what a familiar ceiling might look like, but I do know this isn’t it.
I carefully roll onto my side, trying not to upset my already-throbbing brain, but only my head turns. Maroon curtains cover a window, beams of light fighting their way through the edges. There’s a lace bra dangling off the lamp.
My bra.
Double shit.
I try again to shift under the heavy duvet, and the air in the room changes. It’s not just the smell of crisp white hotel sheets and stale booze; it’s the warmth of a solid body pressed against my side.
A heavy limb is draped over my stomach. A veiny, tattooed arm holds me in place, the hand attached to it cradling my naked fucking boob.
That makes the trifecta of shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Fragments of the night before come streaming back. Sneaking away from the group. Stringer’s room. Naked, sweaty skin stuck together as we rolled through hotel sheets.
My heart quickens, my stomach drops, and I’m not sure whether I’m going to cry or boke. Maybe both.
A low sound rumbles next to me. Gareth Stringer—Elite flanker, number seven. My brother Taranis’s best friend and teammate. A man who has been orbiting my life for years without ever crossing this line.
He’s compact and powerful, a flanker’s body through and through—built to hit, to hold, to keep going long after sense says stop.
And keep going he did. All. Fucking. Night.
I clench my thighs, the ache blooming low in my belly, memory lighting me up in places I absolutely do not have time for.
As men go, he’s fucking gorgeous. Thick neck, broad shoulders, a solid weight beside me that feels dangerously right.
Just as well our Taranis had gone home by then or he’d have broken every one of Stringer’s fingers for touching his little sister.
I roll my eyes. The resulting throb in my skull is worth it. I haven’t been alittleanything in decades.
One night only.Something tight pulls in my chest at the sight of his hand on my skin, making that rule feel like a dirty lie.
I pluck his fingers off my boob, easing his arm back to his side as carefully as I can, and sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest.
My phone vibrates on the floor beside the bed, lighting up with missed calls from myfamily.
My heart stutters. My daughter will be awake by now. Looking for me.
I can’t do this. I am the responsible Morrigan sister. The hooker for the Latharna Ravens. A role model. A mother. My one-year-old daughter is likely awake at my parents’ house, and I’m naked in a hotel room with my brother’s best friend.
What the fuck was I thinking?
I wasn’t. If I had been, I wouldn’t be here.
I’ve made this mistake once before. One reckless night with a friend changed my life forever. It gave me my daughter—and taught me that proximity kills.
Gareth Stringer isn’t just anyone. He’s woven into the fabric of my family. If Taranis finds out his best friend has been railing his sister while the Morrigan name is already being dragged through the mud, there won’t be enough Olderfleet gin in County Antrim to save us.
I slide out of bed, feet hitting the cold carpet. I move with the stealth of a playmaker, scooping up my bridesmaid’s gown and shoes. I just need to get to the door. I just need to?—
The mattress shifts. A breath leaves him, deeper this time. “Morning.” His rumbling voice sounds like gravel and sleep and sex.
