Tiptoeing through a stranger’s dark house, desperate to shake off my liquored-up haze, I catch a glimpse of the bright glowing numbers of a clock across the room.
Four in the morning.
Admittedly, I’ve never stuck around this long after sex. Also admittedly, I’ve never drank that much in, oh, forever. Technically, the last time was probably when I was a teenager. Early twenties at the latest. Unlike then, the thought of hitting a Waffle House to push past my hangover has somehow lost its luster due to a wave of nausea.
Inwardly, I groan. Outwardly, I’m scrambling to find my clothes.
Though I normally have an incessant need to ditch my one-nighters, that’s not what’s going on here. Usually, I find them highly unsatisfying and can easily outpace the best of them, but not tonight. No complaints here.
The gorgeous man with his moody, hazel eyes and body that Adonis would kill for has been the perfect distraction. Nothing like having a half dozen orgasms ripped from you to get a day of hell started.
Dressed again and with my clutch in hand, the only thing I’m missing is my undies. Hmm. He did threaten to hide them. That thought brings out a smile, despite my head pounding.
I scan the penthouse in the darkness one last time, fumbling as quietly as possible. Souvenirs, aka evidence, are not my preferred default. But I’ve looked around as much as I’ve dared. Besides, last night’s undies will keep the other pair company.
I peek back in Coop’s bedroom, taking in how his tantalizing physique takes up a good portion of the plush, massive bed, and shove down the ache to curl up beside him and stick around.
But I need to go. The last thing he needs is to be close to the line of fire. And facing hell head-on is what I do best.
Committing every line of the carved muscles of his sleeping body to memory, I temper the bittersweetness of the moment with reality. Rekindling my smile, I imagine his expressive hazel eyes that darkened and lightened like a naughty mood ring and blow him a silent kiss.
Good-bye, Coop.