Nope. Not going there.
Jamie kisses my temple, thankfully interrupting that train of thought before it can speed right off the tracks. “Relax, Ashton. I’ve got you...”
That’s what I’m afraid of?—
Any other day.
Any other man.
Any other time, and maybe I could relax.
Maybe I could forget about the shit show waiting for me in Kroydon Hills and sink back into this man and the way my body danced under his last night. The way I came alive with each touch. The way I want to dance the encore this morning, even if I know it’s a horror-film-worthy bad idea.
My phone vibratesagain, and I feel the damn thing like it’s cracking against the walls inside my skull. I guess that explains the buzzing from earlier. Only this time, I’m conscious enough to realize not only is it a phone, not a drum line, but shit—it’s Jamie’s phone, not mine because I’m the asshole who let myself fall so deep into my own pity party last night that I never charged my own phone.
Jamie presses his lips to my temple, and another image assaults me like a sucker punch straight to the gut. The kind that steals your breath and doubles you over as you fight to remain on steady feet. Because this image is visceral. I see it. I feel it. I taste it.
Jamie’s massive body hovering above mine, beautiful and powerful.
Moving inside me.
His giant hands framing my face. So big but so gentle.
His—
The vibrating stops, and a puzzle piece snaps into place somewhere in the deep recesses of my hungover brain.
Shit.
My eyes fly open as icy cold fear trickles down my spine.
Our flight.
“Jamie, check your phone,” I snap, yanking the sheet up to my chin and pushing out of his hold and off the bed, searching for my clothes. “Has our flight been rescheduled?”
He sits up, and my breath catches in my throat.
Seriously... this man is beautiful. His vibrant green eyes crinkle at the corners as he stretches slowly and reaches over to grab his phone like we’ve got the luxury of time on our side.
Newsflash—we don’t.I don’t.Not even if?—
Nope. I’m absolutely not going there.
The flickers of last night don’t hold a candle to the real thing right in front of me.
Close enough to touch. To taste. To get lost in. Again.
Jamie’s muscles bunch as he turns, and yes, I stop breathing. Because apparently, I’m a certified psychopath who had the best sex of her life with her sworn enemy, and instead of jumping the hell out of this bed and running anywhere that isn’t here, I’m standing still, a sheet wrapped around me and what I can assume is a rat’s nest on my head, staring at him with what I can only guess is, at the very least, a little bit of drool pooling in the corner of my mouth.
But really, how could I not?
He’s a work of art. A big, broad, beautiful work of art.
I’m used to dancers’ bodies. Long and lean, emphasis on lean. Beautiful, graceful muscles strong enough to throw themselves and me into stunning turns and exquisite lifts, graceful leaps, and gravity-defying spins. Muscles that have held me. Caught me. Carried me.
Safe muscles.
Safe men.
