Page 11 of South Beach Bodyguards

She didn’t open her eyes or shift so it freaked me out. I shook her hard. Her eyes flew open, then smiled in sleepy recognition. What was I supposed to ask her? I couldn’t remember what I’d read online. Just that I needed to make sure she was responsive.

Isabel reached out and tucked her fingers right into the knot I’d made with my towel. Right above my dick. She yanked it.

Oh, she was responsive all right.

And so was I.

four

I prided myself on killer reflexes but when Isabel undid my towel knot and the whole thing started to slip down my hips, I didn’t do a goddamn thing. I didn’t move. I didn’t grab it. I didn’t step backwards. I stood there and let that fucker fall to the tile floor, stunned. Both at Isabel and at myself. I wanted her to pull that towel away and that wasn’t even right. For a guy who prided himself on respecting women, I was doing a lousy job at the moment.

But she was smiling, sleepy and sexy, and when her gaze shifted to my cock, her eyes widened.

“Wow,” she said, and licked her bottom lip.

I almost groaned. Instead, I tried to force my cock to lie down by sheer willpower, but it did just the opposite. The longer she stared, the bigger it grew. Now we had both seen each other fully naked. That was a lot of skin for a Tuesday.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, in what had to be the world’s stupidest question ever.

“I feel better,” she murmured. “But I could feel really, really great in a minute.”

Damn it. I closed my hands into fists and mentally counted to ten. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Slowly, I let my breath out, fully emptying my lungs. Then I drew in fresh air and shook my head. “Not tonight, sweetheart. You have a headache.”

She laughed, a soft, seductive giggle. “At least lay down with me. I’m lonely in bed by myself.”

There was no way I could do that. I couldn’t say yes to that, knowing she had no panties on and nothing but my bunched up T-shirt and I was buck ass naked. “Will you go back to sleep if I lay down with you?”

I had no idea why I’d said that.

Yes, I did. Because I was a dirty ass whore who wanted to feel her bare skin against mine, however briefly and innocently.

“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “I promise.” She reached her arms out to me.

Determined to not be a pervert, I decided to lie on top of the covers next to her. I bent over, and tied my towel back on and did just that. She looked briefly disappointed, but then she rolled towards me, resting her hand on my chest, and she was out cold again. Her head was against my shoulder, her warm breath tickling my skin. I stared at the ceiling and tried to relax but all I could think about was how soon I could get away from her. This was just bad.

Not only was I turned on, I felt ridiculously protective of her, and a part of me wanted to just wrap my arm around her, climb under the covers, and fall asleep next to her. There was just something so guileless about Isabel, even when she was being flirty and strolling around naked. She was sweet. There was just no other way to describe her, and I purposely hadn’t spent a lot of time around sweet women, so it was new and appealing as hell.

But that was just me being an idiot. I’d been working a shit-ton. I hadn’t gotten laid in a month. I was wound tight and feeling tired and maybe a little bit lonely. That’s why crawling under those covers seemed so appealing. But my willpower was stronger than my need to be touched. I was already crossing lines, but going beyond this was out of the question. Isabel was the kind of girl you had to tread lightly around, respectively. She wasn’t the fuck her against the wall girl or the love her and leave her type. So that meant she wasn’t my type and I had stand firm even if it was so very damn tempting to roll over and taste her sweet, sexy body.

So I stared at the ceiling and I mentally did hand to hand combat with eighty-seven sheep, throwing each one over the fence after I kicked his ass, and eventually, out of sheer boredom, I fell asleep on top of the comforter, Isabel’s delicate fingers possessively positioned on my chest.

When I opened my eyes, I realized I was still dreaming. Because I was in a bed with a guy, and all it took was one glance for me to recognize that profile as Ryan’s. Clearly not reality. Considering the few times I had met Ryan I’d been awkward as hell and he had been polite but disinterested.

But for a dream, I had a hell of a headache and he was snoring. Not loudly, but just a soft hum in and out. I shifted, feeling pinned by the blankets. He was also sleeping on top of the covers. Shifting right, my heart rate kicking up a notch, I glanced around the dark room and tried to remember what the hell had happened. I had gone home after class. I had walked Buster through the neighborhood. I’d been texting with Juan, who was being a little more forward and sexual than I was comfortable with, and then… I couldn’t remember anything.

Fully awake, I had memories of intense dreams, where I had been strolling around naked eating pizza and Ryan had been watching me, his face a stormy mask. I touched my head tentatively and wondered if somehow I’d been roofied and Ryan had saved me. Or had I gotten loaded and found my way to Ryan’s to throw myself at him? Because it was not new for me to fantasize about sex with Ryan, nor was it that unusual to get drunk and feel an overwhelming urge to text him and tell him. But I didn’t have Ryan’s number and I didn’t know where he lived.

So what the hell was happening?

I swallowed hard and debated whether or not I should wake Ryan up. I had to go to the bathroom desperately so I decided to ease to the right, out from under the comforter and spill onto the floor. That’s when I realized I wasn’t wearing underwear and I had on a giant T-shirt that clearly belonged to a man. Presumably to Ryan, who was a big guy, tall, broad, muscular. The shirt hung so loosely the neck fell over my shoulder. Scrambling carefully to my feet I tugged it down over my vag and walked toward the door, testing if I felt hungover or not. It wasn’t the same sensation. I didn’t feel nauseous and dehydrated. There was just a pounding behind my eyes. I didn’t make a habit out of getting shitfaced but I knew the morning after feeling and this wasn’t it, not exactly.

I went into the hall, found the bathroom, and my clothes crumpled on the floor. They weren’t going out clothes. It was just jeans and a T-shirt. I pulled my panties on after I used the toilet, then my jeans. I felt better having my body covered, as if that could cover up any embarrassment that I was bound to feel the second I heard that I’d done something ridiculous. Because when you black out what else could be the truth but something epically embarrassing? Once my bra was safely on my chest, I opted to put the loose shirt back on, because I didn’t even want my breasts outlined in a tight top when I went back in there. If I knew where I was, or where my purse and phone were, I could just tap my Uber app and be gone. But there was no sign of my purse or wallet.

Hovering in the doorway of Ryan’s bedroom, I watched him sleeping. God, I was so lame. For eighteen months I had been lusting after him, fantasizing, having ridiculous daydreams about me and Ryan dating, having sex, getting married. He had said maybe a total of fifty words to me and I had married myself off to him in what was a seriously pathetic fantasy. I wasn’t Ryan’s type and I knew that. Men liked women like my mother- confident, sexual, but classy. Not awkward babblers who were better at communicating with dogs than with humans.

Especially not a man like Ryan, who worked security, and carried a gun. He had seen things I doubted I could even imagine and according to my mother, he had dated worldly girls. Actually, her exact words had been “hoochies,” but that’s what she had meant. Women with life experience who weren’t sweet and needy. As in, not me. My mother had been warning me off subtly, because she’d seen the signs of my very juvenile crush.

I couldn’t help crushing on Ryan though. He was polite, protective, tenacious, masculine. He was just sexy as hell and I knew without a doubt that being his girlfriend would make a girl feel amazing, cherished and seriously hard-core loved.

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