Page 42 of Wild Abandon

“I know how you like it,” Channing Tatum whispers into my neck, nuzzling closer.

Wrapping my leg around his torso, I pull him into me. His eyes bear down into mine, and I open my mouth for a kiss. Instead of entering my mouth, his tongue licks the sensitive skin next to my lower lip. I move to pull him deeper into me, but instead, he starts licking me more.

Sloppy.

Sopping.

Wet.

Cold.

His wide, wet tongue laps and licks my mouth. A cold wetness is surrounding my nose. I want Channing to kiss me, but he just slobbers around my face, and there is the distinct smell of—

“Holy shit!” I scream at the sight of the ginormous rottweiler staring at me.

I leap back so far and so fast that I fall, ass down, on the ground. Oh, man, that hurt. And I’m not talking about my ass. Raising a hand to my head, I rub the temple and try to calm the throbbing going on inside.

My mouth also tastes like I’ve been living in the Sahara for a month.

Getting my bearings, I rise up onto my knees and peer back up onto the bed. The animal is staring down with panting deep breaths striking directly in my face.

Looking around the room, there is not a single thing I recognize. The queen-size bed takes up most of the room. The walls are painted a deep gray, and there’s a navy-blue comforter under the rottweiler, sprinkled in black dog fur and a wee-wee pad, where I was sleeping. An alarm clock sits on the end table, and a single dresser is along the wall.

Not knowing where I am, I assess the situation, looking for my quickest escape. I am in a room. I am alone. I am—

Oh Christ!

My stomach nearly drops at the realization that I am wearing nothing but a bra and panties. Granted, they’re my good date-night set but still. I am naked. Alone. In a room that I presume is owned by a man.

Not again!

For a girl who doesn’t do one-night stands, I certainly have a way of finding myself in random men’s bedrooms.

That’s it. I am never drinking again.

Crawling on all fours, I look around the room for my clothes. They are nowhere to be found. I stand up and flip the comforter around, trying to find my skirt and shirt so that I can get the hell out of here.

There is a window, and if I were in anything other than my skivvies, I would consider climbing out. I open a door and find a closet that confirms the room does indeed belong to a man. That leaves door number two as my only means of egress.

Wrapping my body in the white sheet from the bed, I take tentative steps toward the door and open it. Peering around the doorframe, I see a small hallway, and I sniff the distinct smell of…coffee.

Walking down the small hallway, I make a left and am in a living room. A single sofa, TV, coffee table, and a bookshelf overflowing with books make up the modest furnishings in the room. To the right is a small table with two chairs, and beyond it is a kitchen with oak cabinets, a simmering coffee pot, and a six-foot whiskey-pouring devil bearing an unsightly smirk in appreciation of my current condition.

Wearing jeans, a navy T-shirt, and a San Francisco Giants cap, Nate has a coffee cup in his hands. His smile only disappears when the cup rises to his lips. “Morning, sunshine,” he says before taking a sip. “Sleep well?”

My tummy grumbles in part-hunger, part-aggravation, and mostly nerves.

What the hell did I do last night?

On the counter beside Nate is my purse. I leap forward and grab it, making sure to keep my sheet intact. “Where’s my phone?” My voice is slightly panicked as I notice it’s not in there.

“I plugged it in.” Nate makes a motion toward the dining table.

I have to text Naomi. She is probably freaking out that I never came home last night. I turn on my phone, expecting to see several missed calls and text messages. Instead, I just see the Home screen and the time.

“Naomi knows you’re safe,” he says from behind me.

I turn around and eye him in question.