My breath stutters when I eye the expanse of ink on his back, clinging to the taut muscles that ripple as he shifts in his sleep.
God, he’s so fucking hot.
The tattoos just make him feel more dangerous, even more so than he already is to my stupid vagina. The ink makes him even more intense, and I want to know the stories behind them. To trace them with the tips of my fingers while he tells them to me, explaining the reason behind each one.
Then I can’t help but imagine digging my nails into them as he moves between my thighs.
There’s a part of me that can’t even believe that he took care of me the way he did last night.
Most of the night is strung together in out-of-focus pieces, hazy and a little fuzzy, but I do remember how patient he was, how careful and attentive.
A side of him I’d never seen before and wasn’t sure existed, and of course, I was too out of it to truly enjoy it.
I’m never drinking again.
Once was more than enough for me, and if this is how I feel after?
I don’t need a repeat to know that I’m good.
Panic rises in me when I hear Wilder stirring again on the floor.
The thought of him seeing me like this, my hair probably a tangled mess and sticking up in a hundred different directions, in last night’s club makeup and with gross vomit/morning breath?
I will actually die of embarrassment. No,literally,I will die.
It’s bad enough that the man saw me throwing up repeatedly, probably also all over my dress, which is why I’m assuming he changed me into a T-shirt.
That’s a whole new level of humiliation that I was not prepared for.
I’ve got to get out of here before that happens.
I throw the covers off me and swing my feet to the floor, wincing when it creaks loudly beneath me as I stand. More carefully this time, I tiptoe across the room, attempting to be as quiet as I possibly can.
“Sneaking out, Maisie Delacroix?”
I freeze when the sound of Wilder’s sleep-heavy, raspy, too unbelievably hot voice echoes around me.
Busted.
It should not sound that sexy, hearing him say my name that way. Voice all gravelly from sleep, like it’s coming from the deepest part of his chest.
I’m silent for a moment as I try to collect myself before turning back to him, my cheeks already heating.
This is exactly what I wanted to avoid.
Furthering my already surmounting embarrassment.
“Uhm… yes. No. I mean, I was just going to get an Uber and head home.”
His brow arches. “In that?”
I look down and bite back a groan. Shit.
I’m very acutely aware, suddenly, that I’m wearing only his T-shirt and nothing else. Not even panties.
Exactly what I taunted him with last night and how I ultimately ended up in his bed.
Wearing his T-shirt and nothing else.
