He follows – his rhythm faltering, his grip tightening and a low groan slipping against my skin as he lets go inside me.
We collapse together, breath tangled, skin slick, bodies trembling, the world tilting on its axis.And in the silence that follows, I realise something horrible.
I actually enjoyed that.
NINE
I wake up alone.
The sun is already slicing through the cracks in the blinds, hitting the white sheets.
It’s 9.03 a.m.
Which means I broke one of my rules.
No sleepovers.
Ever.
One-night stands don’t get spooning privileges.They don’t get to see me unconscious and drooling.I either sneak out before their REM cycle finishes, or – if we’re at mine – I pass them their clothes before their head hits the pillow and say, ‘See ya later.’
Luke – the emotionally unavailable outback god with absurdly muscled forearms – seems to have caused some kind of internal malfunction, because instead of leaving in the middle of the night, I passed out.Mid-spoon.
Disgraceful.
I swing my legs off the bed and immediately regret it when my vision tilts.My dress – my soaked, wrinkled, morally compromising dress – is still crumpled on the bathroom floor.Maybe it’s a metaphor.I pull it on with the speed and efficiency of someone in witness protection and creep towards the door.
Still no sign of him.
Good.I can salvage this.
I slip back into my room, then pause.The bed is still untouched.
So, unless Abbey wandered into the bush to become one with nature, she’s probably holed up with Dex.Or Dax.Or whatever his name is.
Shower.Shower now.
I cradle my head under the warm stream, feeling the self-loathing settle into my bones somewhere between the ache in my thighs and the beginnings of what might be my worst hangover yet.
I am not twenty-two, and my body is letting me know that.Loudly.
After scrubbing away every trace of the evening from my skin, I pull on denim shorts and a white t-shirt.Hair: air-dried.Make-up: non-existent.Mood: one strong coffee away from functional.
I make my way over to the main house where the early risers are already buzzing around the kitchen – some recovering from the aftermath of last night’s open bar, some just terrifyingly perky.There’s a spread of food on the dining table – fruit, pastries, cold meats – and I grab a croissant before making a beeline for the butler’s pantry where the Nespresso machine is waiting.My sanctuary.
I drop a pod in the machine, and press start like my life depends on it.‘Come to Mama,’ I whisper to the machine.It purrs in response.
‘Morning.’
The voice sends a current straight down my spine.
I turn.
Luke is dressed in dark jeans, a navy button-down shirt and work boots.A fine layer of red dirt dusts his arms and collar like he’s been wrangling livestock since dawn.
‘Morning,’ I reply.‘Sleep well?’
‘Not really,’ he confesses with a tired smile.
