Page 60 of Caribbean Crush

He smiles and reaches up to cup my jaw. He nods, studying my face reverently.

I have to fight the urge to lean into his touch. To give in to that feeling again. Last night was one time too many. A one-night stand is just that, one night. Though this was maybe necessary. One more romp in his bed to satisfy those lingering feelings. And the way I feel now, desperate for more of his touch? Well ... I haven’t had my coffee yet. Maybe I’m just a little tired.

This would be easier if I hadn’t stayed the night, and some part of me wishes I hadn’t. I didn’t stay over the first time we slept together, and it felt easier to wake up the next day with that clean break. This—us lying naked in his bed together—introduces all sorts of complications.

“Did I fall asleep on the couch?” I ask, wondering now how we actually made it to his bed.

He smiles. “Yes. After the second time.”

My cheeks flush, and I look away. “Right. Whoops.”

I’m starting to crawl out of his bed, my eyes already scanning his room for my abandoned clothes. Just my luck, I must have left everything in the living room. I’ll have to scramble out of his bedroom naked or—

“Let me have this sheet,” I say, tugging on it hard.

It doesn’t budge. His body weighs it down.

He laughs. “Stop yanking it, would you? Just give me a second, and I’ll hand it to you.”

He sits up, and I’m treated with too much man for this early in the morning. All that tanned skin ... all those muscles ...

I momentarily lose track of what I was doing beyond checking him out like it’s my life’s greatest purpose. God, look at him.

He clears his throat, mocking me.

I think I hate him now more than ever.

“Here you go,” he says, tugging the sheet free from the blanket and holding it out to me.

Of course, once he does, he turns and stands, not the least bit embarrassed by his nakedness.

I get a good look at his butt—consider it a parting gift—wrap the sheet around myself à la college toga-party attendee, and then book it out into the living room.

My panties and bra are strewn on the side of the couch like evidence of my poor decision-making. They taunt me as I approach. Oh, girl, you’re really in for it now.

I slip them on like I’m being timed and then grab my dress, wrinkles and all, and tug it on. I feel much better once I’m fully clothed.

In all that time, Phillip has only managed to find himself a pair of low-slung pajama pants. They accentuate that tantalizing V men have that leads our eyes straight down. I avert my gaze before I fall victim to that V.

“Right, well, thank you for another—uh—lovely evening.”

Phillip chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re absurd. If you weren’t racing off ... we could continue. I could call breakfast up for us.”

“Oh no. No, no, no.” I just keep repeating the word while I look for my shoes. One is underneath the coffee table, and one is near the television, which is to say it’s wedged between the television and the wall. Whoops. I have to jiggle it for a moment, and even then, the heel leaves a scuff on the paint. I rub it, as if that will magically make it disappear. Then clear my throat. “Right. Send me the bill for that.”

A quick peek at Phillip proves how much he’s enjoying this, watching me squirm, that is.

I veer around him, taking the long way to the door. Even still, he meets me there, taking the handle so he can stall for a moment before he opens it.

“So that’s it? You’re off?”

I don’t look at him. “I’m off. Yes. Work calls, after all. I’m sure my boss has sent a million emails by now. No time to delay.”

He nods, his expression tightening ever so much. “Right. Okay.”

There’s no goodbye. The moment he opens that door, I duck under his arm and flee.

What a disaster!

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