So does my semi-hard dick.
But given my track record with women, it’s probably for the best.
ChapterTen
HOLLY
A woody, masculine scent stirs me from the most decadent dream that Nate Jackson was on top of me, resting the weight of that gorgeous, ripped body on his elbows. His huge, thick length sliding in and out, hard enough to render me sore in the most gratifying manner.
The burn down there is real.
A hard hit of adrenaline ejects into my bloodstream. My eyelids fly open. I jolt upright clutching the soft silky bedsheets to my chest.
Ididhave sex with Nate Jackson.
Last night comes crashing back like a swirling, erratic tornado bombarding my brain.
Crucifying Mariah Carey.
Nate’s laughter. His surprising warmth.
The way he eye-fucked me in that ridiculously indecent nightie before actually fucking me in forty different ways.
My palm sweeps over the empty bed beside me. Looks like my mother was right. If you put out, they run out.
His clothes are gone from the floor.
I don’t need to get up to know he isn’t here. Silence rings through the air. But his scent lingers. It’s just a crying shame he didn’t linger along with it.
Though, seriously, what did I expect?
The world’s hottest movie star stumbles into my hideout (well, technically it’s his, but whatever), sees me in all my hot-mess glory, and by some mad, crazy plot twist, finds me attractive enough to have mind-blowing, leg-shaking, earth-shattering sex with.
Four times.
Did I seriously expect him to still be here in the morning?
In an expectation that’s even madder than Nate finding me attractive in the first place, yes, for some ludicrous reason, Ididexpect him to still be here.
Because the way those mesmerising emerald eyes bored into mine, and the way his huge hands tenderly cupped my face and caressed my body, I could have sworn he was almost as into it as I was.
They weren’t “just lines”. They were straight from my emotionally stunted soul.
But then again, the man does get paid millions to pretend.
I fling back the covers, my feet sinking into the thick, luscious rug, along with my heart.
How does a woman even process this kind of thing, let alone get over it?
On the plus side, it’s doing a stellar job of distracting me from that viral video. A shudder rips over my spine and it has nothing to do with the November morning and everything to do with my mother, my uncle Richard, and the entire world witnessing my boobs do their own Christmas smut-tactular version of the Charleston.
Is twenty-four hours too soon to hope the entire thing has blown over?
I hit the remote control to open the electric blinds (I’m totally getting Kate Winslet inThe Holidayvibes; I just wish I could muster some of her enthusiasm). The wild Atlantic Ocean crashes viciously onto the rocks below. I could watch it all day, except I have to call Savannah. She will never believe it. Fuck, I wouldn’t even believe it either if my vagina wasn’t red raw.
And I should probably pack because this place is Nate’s. His agent paid for it fair and square, and I am basically no better than a common squatter.
I throw on another indecent nightie and saunter through Sav’s gorgeous villa to the kitchen. If I owned this place, I’d never leave it. But then Sav does have the twins to think of. And her business, I guess.
