I return to her and gently wash between her legs before lying beside her and tugging the quilt over us as she curls into my side.
The sound is relentless.
Sharp. Loud. Piercing through the dark like a fire alarm.
I groan and bury my face deeper into the pillow, swiping blindly at the empty air beside the bed.
“Shut up,” I mumble hoarsely.
My hand smacks the mattress, then the sheet, then nothing at all.
Where the hell is my nightstand?
The alarm keeps screaming.
I frown, still half asleep, batting around again. My fingers sweep across cool sheets and then open space where the little table beside my bed should be.
Except it isn’t there.
I crack one eye open.
The ceiling above me is wrong.
Too high. Wood beams instead of the white drywall in my room at the ranch house.
For a second, I just blink at it, my brain sluggish and foggy.
Then I turn my head.
The small cabin slowly comes into focus—the narrow window with pale morning light just starting to bleed through the glass, the rustic wood walls, the little woodstove across the room.
And suddenly, it hits me.
Oh. Right.
The instructor’s cabin.
Memory rushes back all at once.
The party. The bar. Porter.
Porter.
Heat floods my body at the memory of what we did last night.
I roll onto my side.
He’s stretched out beside me, still dead asleep. One arm is flung over his head, chest bare, and the sheet twisted around his waist. His dark hair is a mess, and there’s a faint shadow of stubble covering his jaw.
He looks … well fucked.
And dangerously handsome.
The alarm blares again.
I groan and shove the pillow over my head. “Oh my God.”
The sound is coming from somewhere near the foot of the bed.
