“You’re drunk.” My hands found her waist, attempting to put some distance between us. “Get in bed. I’ll get you some water.”
She grabbed a fistful of my shirt and pulled me closer. “But Cal, I want to fuck. You. I want to fuck you. Come on, you know you want to.”
My cock throbbed, but I detached myself from her grip. “Get in bed, Zadie.”
“Your bed?” She gave me a devilish grin.
Before I could respond, she unbuttoned her jeans and started peeling away the tight denim, revealing shapely legs and a strip of hot-pink lace between them.
My brain short-circuited. My feet carried me backward before the rest of me could overrule them. I turned and left the room, leaving her and the promise of her bare skin behind.
I stood in Chantel’s kitchen with my hands braced on the counter, breathing like I’d just sprinted a mile. The house was too quiet. I could hear her moving around down the hall, the rustle of sheets, a soft thud that was probably her jeans hitting the floor.
I found a bottle of acetaminophen, filled a glass with water, and by the time I’d pulled myself together enough to go back, the room had gone silent.
She was out. Curled under the covers, hair fanned across the pillow, breathing deep. She’d gotten herself into bed and under the sheet, which was more than I’d expected from a woman who couldn’t stand on her own five minutes ago.
I set the water and pills on the nightstand. I should’ve walked away. Put a wastebasket by the bed, closed the door, and gone to the other room.
What if she got sick? What if she needed someone to hold her hair, or woke up confused and scared in a house she didn’t recognize?
I sat on the edge of the bed. Just for a minute. Just until I was sure she was settled.
She made a small sound in her sleep, shifted, and her hand found my arm. Her fingers curled around my wrist and held on like she knew I was about to go.
But fuck, leaving was never really on the table.
I kicked off my shoes, stretched out on top of the covers beside her, and stared at the ceiling. I’d stay awake. Keep watch. Move to the other room before morning.
That was the plan.
Her breathing was slow and steady, and the warmth of her grip on my wrist was the only thing anchoring me to the moment. At some point, my eyes closed, and my body decided the plan was bullshit.
As I drifted off, I could still feel her lips on mine. Still taste the caramel and spice on my tongue. Tomorrow she probably wouldn’t remember any of it.
But I would. Fuck, I’d never forget it.
One kiss, and I was ruined for anyone else.
Chapter Four
Zadie
My head was a vise, crushing my brain, muffling sounds, and making me want to vomit.
God, I’d never been so hungover.
Then again, I didn’t have much to compare it to. I barely ever drank, and this was a solid reminder why.
The bed shifted.
Shit. I breathed through a wave of nausea, my heart racing, as I cracked my eyes open and prayed. Please, please don’t let me be in a stranger’s bed.
Nothing about the room was familiar. Except the artwork on the wall. It was the painting I’d done for Chantel’s birthday last year.
I was in her guest room. Not the one I’d haphazardly made my own—the one with my overflowing suitcase and a stack of newly purchased self-help books on the nightstand—this was the smaller one across the hall.
How the hell had I ended up in here?