Читать книгу Tonight: City of Sin / Shipwrecked - Nana Malone, Sherelle Green, Sheryl Lister - Страница 17

Chapter 7

Syn woke surrounded by warmth. As she snuggled deeper into the covers, she smiled contentedly. Wow, she hadn’t slept that well in...well, hell, she couldn’t remember ever sleeping that well. Raising her hands above her head, she stretched, relieving aching muscles from the tips of her fingers to the tippy top of her manicured toes. As she wiggled back in toward her heat source, she let her eyes drift shut again and as usual her brain took her to her favorite fantasy. Tristan.

The scruff of his jaw tickling her inner thighs as he lapped at her slick folds, giving her orgasm after orgasm, unrelenting even when she begged off. Tristan, gently placing her hands on the headboard, then bracketing her hips in his big, strong hands as he took her from behind. Tristan, begging her to say his name, insisting she admit to who was inside, taking her to the blissful edge time after time.

Tristan, who kissed her and told her she was beautiful and stared at her in awe as she came. Tristan, who worshipped her breasts and her ass. Tristan. Tristan. Tristan.

Except, this dream was different. As she played her fantasies over and over in her mind as it was her favorite in-desperate-need-of therapy pastime, her core tightened. That wasn’t unusual, but the mild soreness was. But she wasn’t sore in a bad way. More as though she’d had sex so good you want to slap your ex. As though she’d had sex so good it required an encore. As though she’d had sex so good she needed to give Tristan Dawson a freaking medal.

Her eyes sprang open. Carefully she peeked out of the corner of her eyes. Sure enough, Tristan lay beside her in all his gorgeous glory, looking devastatingly sexy and at the same time somehow vulnerable while he slept.

Shiiiiiite. Her whole body seized as the memories flooded her brain. She’d slept with Tristan. More like that they’d screwed each other senseless and promptly passed out. She was officially that girl. The girl who couldn’t control her freaking hormones. The girl she’d made fun of. She’d been Dawsoned.

She’d slept with the enemy. Not only slept with him; she’d lost count of the number of orgasms he’d given her. But what she hadn’t lost track of was the way he looked at her every time he slid into her. As if he was in awe and she felt like Christmas morning. And she’d seen that look at least five times during the night. The man was a sex god. She really had to find out what kind of vitamins he took.

And damned if he didn’t believe in ladies first...and ladies second...sometimes even ladies third before he came. After each time when she passed out, they’d slept for about an hour, and then he’d woken her up again for more of his expert tongue and hands. Each time she’d gone willingly and given as good as she’d gotten. The floodgates of sexual tension were now released.

Okay, calm down, Syn. First order of business, wake that sexy man up for round five. No! She was not going to have sex with him...again. Her libido was not running the show. Yes, I am. She ignored the roaring diva inside and forced her brain out of autopilot, revving the engine. The real first order of business was to get the hell out of bed. She’d be able to think better when his warmth didn’t envelop her like a cocoon. Second order of business, find her dress.

She risked another glance at him before she quietly slid to the edge of the bed. In the darkness of the room, she used her foot to search for it. He’d tossed it on the floor somewhere here, right? Their first time had been so hurried in the elevator. Still inside her, he’d carried her into his bedroom before cleaning them both up. He’d tossed her dress somewhere on the floor during round two. She’d been so shell-shocked and lust-crazed she hadn’t paid attention to where he’d dropped it.

Behind her, Tristan shifted in the bed, and she froze. First rule of one-night stand with a sex god: don’t stick around for the awful morning after with said sex god. Second rule of one-night stand with a sex god: don’t have the sex god be Tristan Dawson. Third rule of one-night stand with a sex god...do it again and burn the memories into your brain. Syn bit back a moan. Stupid move, Michaels. If she thought he was impossible before, there would be no getting that smug look off his face now.

Where the hell was her dress? Screw it, you can buy another one.

Right now, in the darkness of Tristan’s room with her heart hammering, and her lady parts begging for more of what Tristan had to offer, the best course of action was to cut and run. Staying here was too dangerous. But without her dress, that meant walking out of his room butt naked. There would be no sexy movie scene where she slid out of bed with a sheet covering her lady parts. This was real life and if she grabbed a sheet, that would certainly wake him.

Come on, once more with feeling. Get up and get gone. Once in the comfort of her room, she could figure out how to get the ground to open and swallow her whole. One thing was for certain, she’d have to check in to another hotel and do the rest of her observations as a third party. It was the only way.

As she stood, a voice from behind her said, “Running away, Michaels?”

She squeaked and whirled around. Damn him for looking so hot. Yes, she was running away, but she wasn’t going to let him know that. “No. Going back to my room. We have an early morning, so I need to get some sleep. I can’t do that here.”

He reached over and turned on the light on the nightstand. Synthia dived for the sheets, but only managed to grab enough to cover her breasts to about the top of her thighs. Well, hell. But at least if they were going to have this conversation, he couldn’t ogle her boobs. Too bad her butt was flapping in the wind.

Tristan reached for her and Synthia backed up a step. Unfortunately it also shifted the sheet, so she nearly flashed him her vajayjay. No matter that he had already seen her goods up close and personal. In her version of the awkward morning after, she’d be clad in designer chic with perfect makeup and styled hair. Instead, her hair was a tangled sweaty rat’s nest, and her makeup was likely smeared all over her face and she was bare-assed naked, trying to make a clean escape. So not perfect. She cleared her throat. “I’m going back to my room, Tristan.”

He frowned and shoved himself into a sitting position. “Why?”

“Because, I need sleep and you, we, um—last night. I—” Okay, so maybe next time she opened her mouth, she’d use actual words. Intelligent words. Rational words. But right now the more she searched, the more she came up empty, or naked, as it would seem.

Even in the muted morning light, his gaze pierced her straight to the soul. “The way I figure it, you can run back to your room and you can pretend that last night in the elevator, and in the doorway, and in this bed, and the middle of the night when I woke you up to finally see how you taste, or an hour ago when I slid into you from behind, holding those perfect boobs of yours, didn’t happen. Or you can come back to bed and we can call some kind of truce.”

A truce. He wanted a truce with her? “Look, I don’t ever do...” Her voice trailed off and she gestured vaguely with her hand. “That. I’m cautious and I don’t sleep around.”