“We can just talk for a while,” he says, melting my heart even more.
My parents had a long talk with me and my brother after that incident, making sure that Grayson understood consent, along with power dynamics, peer pressure and bystander effect. He knew if he ever thought he could use his status as a hockey player to abuse women they’d whip his ass. (Not literally, they’ve never hit us.) Also, they’d drummed it intomyhead that men can be a danger, especially after that tragedy with Harlow and the hockey players. I understand that and appreciate that they wanted me to always be safe. I’ve made mistakes and trusted the wrong people because sometimes I make decisions with my heart instead of my head. And when you start living in the spotlight, those mistakes can become huge disasters.
I don’t want this to be a huge disaster.
I’m attracted to this man. I’m having fun with him. I like him. And I think he likes me, too. The way he looks at me, listens to me, teases me, makes eye contact with me… I feel like a Greek goddess even when not on the stage. His easy charm, captivating smile, and a genuine…decencyhave lured me in. And the physical attraction—his longish, tousled hair with glints of chestnut, his neatly trimmed beard and mustache that outline the angular shape of his jaw and showcase sexy, full lips, those glinting brown eyes, and yes, his body, with strong shoulders, flat abs, and thick thighs—is panty-meltingly hot.
No regrets.
“Okay,” I reply.
His smile is slow, enchanting, and tinged with relief. “I need to clean up.” He glances at his groin and grimaces.
“Oh. Yeah.” My pussy squeezes. He came in his pants. So did I. We were both so horny we just… did that. It was hot.
“Be right back. Make yourself comfortable, diva. Raid the mini bar.”
I grin. “I am hungry.”
He shoots me a look. “Of course you are.”
He strides across the room to the closet where we, uh, dry humped to mutual orgasms. He grabs a couple of things and disappears into the bathroom.
I sit on the side of the bed and take off my boots, then pad over to the window. He has a view of the Strip, too, the mountains in the distance a sharp black line against the cobalt blue sky. I’m still standing there when he returns, now wearing a pair of navy sweatpants and a gray T-shirt that softly hugs his muscles.
I swallow a sigh of lust.
“What do you want to eat?” he asks, surveying the options.
I move over beside him. “Oh! Those Sour Patch Kids.”
“Nope. Those are mine.”
My head whips around. “What?”
He gives me a slow, sexy smirk. “Those are my favorite.”
My spine straightens. “They’re my favorite, too.”
“Really?” He plucks the bag out. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have chocolate? Look, this is really good chocolate.”
I frown and reluctantly take the bar from him. “I don’t mind chocolate, but I really love sour candy.”
“Something we have in common. Okay, fine. I’ll share.” His faux grudging generosity makes me laugh. “How about a drink?” He opens the small fridge. “There’s whiskey but I don’t think I can make you a whiskey sour.”
“You don’t have to make me anything.”
“Do youwanta whiskey sour, though?” He moves to the phone on the desk.
“No! That’s okay. Look, prosecco! I love that.”
“Okay, have that, sure.” But then he picks up the phone and calls room service anyway. “Yeah, could we get a few more bags of Sour Patch candies up here? And a whiskey sour, please. Thanks.”
“Oh my God.” I shake my head.
I haven’t opened the prosecco so I replace it in the fridge and return to the bed.
“This little bag isn’t going to last long.” He tosses the bag of candy on the bed and joins me, both of us sitting with our backs to the headboard. “We need more.”
