As if all this isn’t enough to send me spiraling, that massive arm I’m going to act like isn’t attached to anything or anyone pulls me back against an equally massive body, and the face attached to that body buries itself against my neck and inhales with a sexy hum.
So much for acting.
Mother. Fucker.
The room spins before righting itself again, and last night comes crashing back into crystal-clear focus. So clear, it’s in flawless, beautiful Technicolor.
The canceled flights.
The hotel.
The champagne and complete lack of food... unless you count chocolate.
Damn it. I seriously should have eaten something yesterday.
Or maybe not have finished a magnum of champagne.
The asshole with his arm around me, holding me like—fucking hell—like he gave me orgasms... So many orgasms I lost count after—what... five?
Internally I squeak. Externally I’ve been rendered mute.
Chaos...I swear to God, chaos follows me everywhere I go, and last night, I grand jetéd right into its arms. His arms.Jamie’s arms. Chaos’s arms.
What-the-fuck-ever.
I leaped, and now I’m screwed.
Was screwed.
What’s the proper tense when you were an active participant in the screwing?
Because I’m fairly certain I gave as good as I got.
I gave with so much enthusiasm?—
Oh God . . . Kill me now.
Slowly, with the careful grace only a lifetime spent working with the best ballet masters in the world could give me, I rollover, barely moving Jamie’s massively muscled arm, only for my stomach to flip when the rest of him comes into view. And yup, there he is. The literal bane of my existence. Screw him for looking so goddamned good.
The morning light streams in through the curtains we never bothered to close last night, catching on his warm hair and sun-kissed skin. How is this man sun-kissed in the middle of February?
I allow myself a single moment to drag my eyes along his big body, and holy fucking hell...
Jameson Murphy is more beautiful than a damn Adonis. All gorgeous golden skin covering massive muscle, and—oh lord—that ink wrapping around his arms and down his chest. Ink I traced with my fingers and my lips, and son of a bitch, my tongue.
My vision darkens as flashes of Jamie lifting me in the air and sliding inside?—
I press my thighs together and accidentally knock against his?—
No.No. No . . .
I want to say I did not sleep with Jameson fucking Murphy.
I need to say it.
Every single molecule in my body demands I scream it from the rooftop of this shitty airport hotel. But even if after last night I should probably consider myself a bit of a hussy, as of this morning, I’m still not a liar.
“Stop thinking so loud, Ace. It’s early, and your feet are fucking freezing. Come here.” His sleep-thickened voice, deep, and raspy, and incredibly sexy, curls around me the same way his body does. Jamie tugs me closer and rubs his hot feet over my cold ones, holding me captive as I suddenly become very aware of every single inch of my body pressed closely to his. Theway the backs of my legs feel against his thighs. My ass against his?—
