Page 45 of Knotted Laces

A sigh, his arms tightening, drawing me closer?—

Holy fucking shit.

He’s hard—and yeah, I know I’ve thought that already in the last two minutes.

But…he’shard.

And pressed into my hip and throbbing and?—

I slip free of his hold before I do something stupid. Like reach down, wrap my fingers around his cock, and start stroking.

Sweet baby Jesus.

My headache increases as I stumble away from the bed, mostly because I realize I’m not wearing pants.

Or a shirt—or notmyshirt.

I’m covered in Cam’s tee, the cotton skating over my curves, hanging to mid-thigh. No bra. No underwear. Just…

A shirt.

And he’s…

I avert my eyes again.

Naked. No. Okay,almostnaked. That lickable ass is barely covered in a pair of tiny boxer briefs.

“Athena,” he murmurs, and I know I need to get the hell out of here.

The talk last night, drinking and playing video games—I could accept both of those. But waking up like this?

No. Fuckingno.

I don’t bother looking for my clothes, just steal a pair of sweats that I cinch tight around my waist and socks that dwarf my feet from the bag in the corner. I have other stuff in the car, including a jacket. These are just to get me decent. I’ll return them another time.

I exhale, slip out into the hall, and move to my shoes by the door. My purse is on the counter, along with my cell, and I snag both after I shove my feet into my boots. Then I’m slipping out into the early morning.

It’s still mostly dark, and the rain’s falling fast and furiously.

I bleep my car’s locks, yank open the door, plunk into the driver’s seat, and turn on the engine. A breath to steady myself before I start to back up.

“Fuck!” I hiss, slamming on the brakes, skidding in the wet earth, horror blooming in my middle as I take in the scene captured by the backup camera.

The bridge that spans the river…

Is gone.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Cam

A shockof cold wakes me up.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice mutters. “Why the fuck do you sleep so deeply?”

I frown, eyes slitting open, wiping a hand over my face, the words belatedly processing. I don’t sleep deeply, not normally anyway. But two bottles of whisky and a shit-ton of beer over only a few nights and I’m not exactly running on all cylinders. “I’m up,” I mutter, realizing my hand is wet again, that Athena has dumped water on me a second time. “Can you dispense with soaking me and the bed every time it’s time to wake up?”

“I would,” she grinds out, “if you’d actuallywake upthe first half-dozen times I’ve tried to rouse you.”

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