Page 12 of Hard to Love

My hands go to him. In a flurry of motion, I unbutton the rest of his shirt and with his mouth back on mine, he pulls his arms out of his sleeves. His biceps are firm and the only thing I can grab on to while his fingers are eliciting sensations and pleasure. All I can think about is touching him, feeling him, causing him to make the same strangled moans that are falling from my mouth.

My hands are on his pants. His button. His zipper. Sliding beneath the waistband of his underwear until my fingers wrap around the velvety smooth hardness of him. His groan fills my ears and it’s everything I need to hear—he wants this as bad as I do.

He cups me, fingers moving in, the palm of his hand adding pressure to the hub of nerves begging to find its release, all while his lips create a devastating trail of open-mouthed kisses down the curve of my neck, to the shell of my ear, to my collarbone and below.

My body thrums with anticipation and arousal and all I can think is more. I want more of him. I need more of him.

Our mouths connect again as his fingers work at a fever pitch to bring me to that cusp of wanting more and begging him to stop until he’s in me.

But I’m already past the point of no return. Already tensing my hands on his biceps, already bucking my hips against his hand, already moaning incoherently as the orgasmic haze washes over me.

“Christ,” he murmurs, our breaths panting against each other’s before his teeth tug gently on my bottom lip. His pants and belt give a clink as they drop around his ankles. “Condom. We need—”

“Yes. Condom. Yes,” I say, still dazed by him, by this, by the climax that tore through me without mercy. My lips meet his and my hand runs up and down the length of his shaft one last time.

“Be right back.” He steps out of his pants and strides naked into the bathroom giving me a more than ample view of his gorgeous backside and broad shoulders.

But . . . Oh my God. My head is spinning as I slide my skirt down to my feet. I feel weak. Sated. Dizzy. I had no freaking idea orgasms could do . . . that.

FINN

CHRIST.

How did this happen?

Not that I’m complaining but a quick trip down to the bar for a drink or two to relax after a long flight was not supposed to end up with a gorgeous woman in my room, and her arousal still wet on my hands while I run to my bathroom to grab a condom to jacket up.

Yet here we are.

I chuckle at the thought as I roll the condom over my cock and stride back into the room.

“All set . . .” But my words fall on deaf ears as I take in the woman, Scarlett, who is lying across my bed, wearing high heels, a barely-there lacey bra and panty set that effectively means she’s nude.

And she’s completely passed out.

“No. No. No,” I mutter as I move toward her, dick hardening at the sight of her incredible body, and begin shaking her shoulder to wake her up.

To continue what we started.

But she doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even stir. And I’m left standing with a rock-hard cock, a blissfully gorgeous woman in my bed, and no relief in sight.

Was she that drunk? How did I not realize that?

And more importantly, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?

Clearly I was hoping to have a fun time with her, or I wouldn’t have invited her up to my room. But now? Now, she needs to go if sex isn’t on the menu.

“Come on, Scarlett. Time to get up. To go home.”

One-night stands don’t get to sleep in my bed. We have sex. One of us leaves. I shower and rid myself of everything but the memory of her.

End of story.

Then again, most women don’t get to sleep in my bed, one-night stand or not, so that’s neither here nor there.

But this . . . her . . . how do I handle this? It’s not like I can pick her up and set her gently in the hallway where she can wake up on her own time.

I’m not that much of a dick.