Page 5 of Corrupt Me

A groan pulled from my lips.

I’m dying.

It sure as hell felt that way.

Pressing a hand to my temple, I pondered whether it was wise to get out of bed for a bottle of aspirin or if I should burydeeper under the covers until the sun decided to stop being so god-awful cheery.

Pills. I needed relief from the incessant pounding. And I needed it like yesterday.

I was about to roll out of bed when I realized something was pinning me down.Now what? I swear God hates me.

With another groan of misery, I lifted a hand to push off whatever weighed me down and connected with warm flesh. My eyes flung open, blinking rapidly against the bright light that made me regret the hasty decision.Why can’t it be cloudy or rainy?

The room came into focus bit by bit, like stepping back from a watercolor painting, the images becoming clearer. Something was unusual about the ceiling and even the scent of the room, nothing floral or sweet but as if Preston had doused the sheets with his soap or cologne.

No. Not Preston. The scent was off.

I scanned the dark gray wooden walls, the chair in the corner covered in clothes, and the walkout balcony overlooking the ocean beyond the open glass doors. I never left my patio doors open for fear of being abducted in the middle of the night.

It became obvious this wasn’t my room.

I swallowed, a feeling of dread working its way into my throat.No. No way. This can’t be...

Oh, but it was.

I’d only been inside this particular room a handful of times, and most of them had ended with Tristan telling me to get the hell out, so how did I end up in his bed?

Then I remembered.

Shit.

Please, please, please, for the love of God, tell me I’m dreaming.

I had to still be drunk. That was it.

I was afraid to look over at the other side of the bed—afraid who I would see—what I would see. So, I glanced down at the tattooed arm slung over my hip, broad fingers splaying across my belly.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

It was like every fantasy I’d ever had turned into a bad episode of Jerry Springer.

three

Iwas in a T-shirt and nothing else. Not mine, I might add. My eyes closed, and I forced myself to take a deep breath.Don’t freak out. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like I slept with him or anything.Slept but notslept with.

Or so I thought.

What a way to lose your virginity. Drunk and with your boyfriend’s brother. My memories might be foggy of how the night ended with me in Tristan’s room, but I was damn sure I would remember sleeping with the guy I’d hated to love for years.

I wiggled my hips a hair to make sure I was still wearing underwear. Halle-fucking-lujah. They were intact.

But wiggling my hips might not have been the wisest action, regardless of how slight.

“Ever, what are you doing?” Tristan asked in a low, husky voice, thick with sleep.

My gaze snapped to his face, and my body went still. His eyes were closed, and he hadn’t removed the hand on my bare skin. Why did his voice sound even sexier in the morning? It wasn’t fair. This doesn’t have to be awkward.Just keep cool,Everly. You can do cool. You’re the picture of cool.Was it wrong to want to stare at his face for hours in the morning? He had a ruggedness that Preston could never pull off. “Uh, wondering how I got in your bed.” My voice was scratchy, courtesy of yelling and puking. Forget about what was going on in my head, the crashing of the waves outside the open doors echoed the thundering in my head.

“Keep your panties on. Nothing happened,” he mumbled, causing an irrational ribbon of disappointment to curl within me. “Yet,” he added with a devious smirk as his fingers inched a fraction lower on my belly. Then another inch. And another.

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