CHAPTERONE
SPENCER
I snap my eyes open,suddenly awake, and see a naked, tattooed man lying next to me. His muscles go taut as he pulls a pillow over his face, and his groan turns into a curse.
“Fucking fuck. What did I drink last night?”
My mouth is dry. The light is too bright, and my head throbs, and it hits me that beneath the sheet I’ve wrapped around myself, I’m naked, too.
“Shit,” I whisper, and the other man bolts upright beside me.
We stare at each other. The stranger’s hazel eyes are wide. His dark hair, in desperate need of a trim, falls to his shoulders in messy waves. Despite his unkempt nature, he’s a surprising combination of beautiful and masculine that disarms me even more than I already am in my compromised state.
High cheekbones and square jaw, soft lips and dark stubble. Probably around my age, thirty. No one’s features should be this captivating, or so strangely familiar.
After a beat, the stranger raises a cocky half-grin. “Damn, you’re handsome. Real shame I can’t remember fucking last night.”
With that, the hangover catches up. My stomach roils. Clutching the sheet around my naked body, I bolt across the luxury hotel room until I find the bathroom and empty last night’s drinks into the toilet.
Did I seriously have sex with that man?
I’ve spent a decade denying myself sex with any man. Period. It’s simply not worth what it would cost me.
Could I have thrown away all those years of sacrifice and denial in one drunken evening?
And for a man with long hair and tattoos? Fuck. What was I thinking? He’s not even my type.
My head pounding, I splash cold water on my face. I’ll have to ask him to sign a nondisclosure agreement. It won’t be cheap to buy his silence, and based on this extravagant hotel room, he’s already got plenty of cash, so money might not motivate. But with any luck, he’ll have a modicum of decency and compassion, sign the papers, and grant me some peace of mind.
I’m too famous to assume I can keep this quiet otherwise.
When I look in the mirror again, I notice purple hickeys blooming across my collarbone and down my chest. A blurry memory of that man licking my torso rises up.
Oh god.
I tug on a terrycloth robe and return to the room. The stranger remains fully naked on top of the sheets, massive silver pillows propping him up, and he’s now holding an immodestly sized pink dildo.
He lifts it higher, revealing the tattoo of a flaming asteroid beneath his bicep.
“Pink, huh?” he asks. “It was under the covers. I take it you’re into dildos? Not really my thing, but I can imagine the appeal.”
I swallow, my head pounding. He waves the dildo back and forth, distracting me, although not nearly as much as his substantial cock, which hangs heavily between his muscular thighs.
My eyes dart to the nightstand. There’s a bottle of lube and a length of silky black fabric.
What the hell did we do with that fabric?
I force my gaze to his. “No,” I say as simply as I can, clinging to reason. “I am not into dildos.”
The man casually drops the sex toy and crosses his arms over his chest. “Begging you not to be offended, but I don’t happen to remember your name.”
His voice is low and steady, almost like a purr.
At least he doesn’t recognize me. This would be twice as complicated if I slept with a fan, who might be more inclined to brag about bedding a star tennis player.
“Spencer,” I say. “And you are?”
He looks surprised, but his cocky grin quickly returns. “You don’t recall either, huh? Must have been a hell of a night.” He winks. “I’m Gabriel.”
