I scrub my hands over my face, trying to jump-start the synapses in my brain. From the feel of my hair, I’m sure I resemble Anna on Coronation Day.
Dex kissed me.
Dex flipping kissed me.
Breathe, Maddey. Just breathe.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I do my best to calm myself down when I recognize the familiar scent of salt and sea. Dex? A cautious crack of my eyelids reveals I’m alone in the room. Why do I smell him?
I’m not caffeinated enough to deal with all the questions swirling in my mind. Why didn’t I train Trident to use the Keurig?
Lacing my fingers together, I stretch my arms overhead and freeze. What am I wearing?
Is this…
No…
Holy shit, I’m wearing Dex’s shirt. Scrambling amid my cocoon of covers, I work to get my hands under them and find the only other thing I have on are my lace cheekies.
What the hell happened last night?
There was tequila—so much tequila. Confessing to corrupting minors. A dance party. There was a fight? Oh, shit! I hit Dex—repeatedly. Ah, that’s what lead to the kiss. After that, though…blank. Why don’t I remember what happened after? Did he literally melt my brain cells?
There’s the clack of nails on the hardwood, and I’m bounced as Trident leaps onto my bed, dropping a bottle of water onto my stomach.
Deep rumbling laughter sounds from above me, and my nipples—my braless nipples, I might add—perk up. I may not remember all the events of last night, but they sure as shit haven’t forgotten what it felt like to be pressed against Dex’s shouldn’t-be-possible-to-be-that-hard chest.
“Need a little pixie dust, Tink?”
I’d scowl if I didn’t think the action would add to the conga line dancing inside my head. I settle for flipping him off instead.
“What’s wrong, princess? Can’t think of a happy thought?” The laughter in his voice has me gritting my teeth. To think a part of me was feeling guilty over getting physical with him last night…now all I want to do is punch him again, preferably in his face this time.
“I asked you to get me a drink, baby.” I scratch behind Trident’s ears. “Not a Dex.”
“What a mean thing to say about the person who brought you painkillers.” There’s the telltale rattle of a bottle of pills.
With way more effort than should be needed for such a simple task, I push myself up to a seated position, folding my arms over the covers bunched at my waist.
The starkness of my wardrobe against the kaleidoscope of color that is my bedding brings one of the many questions running rampant to the forefront.
“Why am I wearing your shirt?” I hold a hand out for my salvation—the Advil, not the man.
You sure about that one?
What the what?
“Because I put you in it.” There’s a territorial gleam in those dark eyes when I chance a glance at Dex, and holy shit, he’s shirtless. Why is he shirtless? Fuck me.
No. None of that, Madison Belle. Do not think the words ‘fuck me’ in relation to Dexter Stone—EVER. We are just going to pretend that kiss last night never happened. Or better yet, feign not remembering it. Blame the alcohol.
“Why? And where is your shirt? Don’t even try to say it’s because I’m wearing it. You’re staying here—I know you have other clothes with you. I’ve seen them.”
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that even hungover, you still talk a mile a minute?”
My insides flutter at another one of those manly chuckles, and I wonder what the hell is going on. Flutters mean feelings, and I don’t have feelings for Dex. Right?
No. No I don’t. It’s just the intensity of the kiss combined with my hangover that is messing with my central nervous system. That’s it. Anyone going through a sexual drought like mine would be on lust overdose after a kiss like that.
The possessive grasp.
The stinging hair pull.
The pinch of the chin to hold me in place.
Strokes of the tongue.
Nips of the teeth.
Talk about a kiss straight out of my Kindle crack.
“Well?” I arch a brow.
“Well what?” He shrugs, the action drawing my eyes to the rippling of those tempting muscles of his torso.
If Jiminy won’t let us think the words ‘fuck me’, can we think ‘lick’? Because I really, really think we should lick him. I mean, look at that ink along his rib cage. And it goes into the dip of that V. That V! Come to mama.
Fuck!
I need to focus—on the question, not the sexy SEAL.
“Why did you put me in your shirt?”
“After you reverse-Sleeping-Beauty-ed me—”
“I love when you use a Disney reference as a verb.”
“—it was the easiest thing available to dress you in,” he finishes, ignoring my comment completely.
With my gaze still homed in on that delicious—
How do you know it’s delicious? You won’t let us lick him. *crosses arms and pouts*
Anyway… *side-eyeing those pesky voices* Since I’m still looking at it, I see the way his breathing changes, growing labored as if the memory of changing my clothes is enough to affect him.
“What? Are you so bored with your bodyguard assignment you decided to risk your life copping a feel?”
Why is the thought of missing out on the feel of Dex’s hands running over my body, slipping my heels off my feet, unzipping my romper and pushing it down my body until it falls on the floor so disappointing?
“I was a perfect gentleman. I didn’t even sneak a peek. Because, baby—”
I suck in a breath at both the endearment and how he bends, balling his fists and balancing on his knuckles, invading my personal space. The scent of the sea intensifies and a hint of minty toothpaste hints me as he brushes the tip of his nose across my cheek then down the shell of my ear.
“—when I get my hands on you again, it will be so much more than copping a feel.”
Holy alpha, Walt.
My entire being liquifies. How the hell am I supposed to react to a declaration like that?
This is a complete one-eighty from everything I’ve ever believed to be true about our relationship.
He’s still so close I feel his lips part as he goes to say something else, but it’s cut off by Trident suddenly perking up. A few seconds later we hear, “Honey, I’m home.”
I flop back with a groan, too hungover and undercaffeinated to deal with the craziness that is Tucker Hayes.
That’s it—I’m staying in bed. These covers have accepted me as one of their own already. No need to get up; I’m okay with being part of their world.
Twenty minutes later, I pad downstairs in a pair of drawstring shorts with books printed on them and a white crop-top tank. Showering and brushing my teeth was pretty much the extent of the effort I took with myself, but the best thing about my friends is none of them will give a damn.
“Drink this.” Rocky hands me a glass of I-don’t-think-I-wanna-know the moment I step foot inside my kitchen.
“Isn’t Gemma supposed to be the one handling my nutritional needs?” I eye the glass like my friend took her Harry Potter obsession too far and tried to brew me Polyjuice Potion.
“Yes, but I was the one they turned to when they needed to recover enough from a night of drinking to survive morning skate. Stop being difficult and drink.” She stares me down until I do as I’m told. Who am I to refuse our resident physical therapist?