Page 27 of Sinful Escape

“I happen to be good at poker.”

“That doesn’t mean you have a good poker face.”

That was true. I could never bluff in a game of cards. “Okay, if you must know, I popped a few buttons.” Half the truth . . . I should be able to get away with that.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, is that all? Why didn’t you just say so?”

I looked at the rust-colored carpet. “It’s embarrassing.”

Roman’s hand glided up to my shoulder, just like Pierre’s had done minutes ago. Two stunning men touching me in one night. One was amazing. Two was a miracle.

“As long as you’re not hurt.”

“Nope, all good.”

“I really am sorry for what I said.” He gave my shoulder a gentle rub, and the familiarity of it had all sorts of naughty things squirming inside me.

“It’s okay. You’re forgiven.” I wriggled past him so I could escape to my room. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He jabbed the elevator call button. “Okay then. Have a good sleep.”

I made a dash down the hallway, unlocked the door, and closed it behind me in a nanosecond. My heart thumped as I placed my bag on the table and waited a few seconds to confirm Roman had actually gone. Satisfied, I went to the bed and flopped onto the covers.

As I stared up at the ornate scarlet ceiling, my mind spun in crazy loops. It was a vortex of thigh-quivering thrills and blind panic. One minute, my libido had been riding an exquisite knife edge; the next minute, my brain was about to explode.

I closed my eyes. The look on the faces of the middle-aged couple would be forever burned into my eyeballs. Wide eyes. Pointing fingers. Their cackling laughter.

How much had they seen?

My bare back. My bra flying across the kitchen. Me running naked.

I began giggling.

Soon I was laughing so hard, I could barely breathe. Happy tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed like that, and with my photographic memory, that was saying something.

I’d considered myself a bit of a fun girl to be around. But fun girls laughed freely, with others and at themselves. Clearly, I was not.

Maybe Roman was right . . . on both counts. I had died on the inside, and I needed to get out more.

Regaining my composure, I sat up and examined what was left of my shirt. It was ruined. Not only had I ripped off the buttons, but I’d also torn the fabric. So even if I had the buttons, it would’ve been impossible to sew them back on.

I’m a wild woman.

Riding a wave of post-lust jubilation, I waddled to the bathroom and stared at my reflection. A rosy blush colored my cheeks. Was that from the emotional ride . . . Pierre and that kiss, being busted, and then bumping into Roman? Or was it the stirring in my dormant loins that still ached and throbbed?

I showered, put on the panties and T-shirt that served as my sleepwear, and brushed my teeth. A quick mental calculation confirmed it was six in the morning for Azalia. She’d be awake.

Grabbing my phone, I flopped onto the bed and tapped out a text message.

Morning babe, how was your night?

Hell. Mom had a bit of a bender. She searched the house for Dad for a few hours before she passed out on the lounge

Oh babe, I’m so sorry

Azalia’s father had died in a workplace accident when she was fourteen. The two of us had so much connection it was like we were destined to meet. I, too, lost my father at fourteen, although he didn’t actually die. He just became dead to me.

Nothing to be sorry about. Tell me you’re having a better night

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