Page 45 of One Bed

But, damn, she wished she’d learnt how to defend herself better, how to be an advocate for herself. Instead of fleeing, she should’ve given him a blasting, told him to take his bad mood and sullen face and fuck right off.

Anger swept over her, incinerating her self-doubt and her self-pity. She wasnota child anymore, and she refused to let him treat her like dirt under his feet. Fury dried up her tears and sent adrenaline pumping through her veins.

She didn’t care who he was, or how big he was, she was going to verbally incinerate him. He’d awoken her inner dragon, and she was going to go scorched earth on his ass! And then she’d boot him off her godmother’s property.

She half sprinted back to the cottage, banging the front door open so hard the table rattled, and the blue dish moved a little closer to the edge of the table. She pushed it back into place, and looked around the cottage, not seeing the object of her rage.

She stomped into the bedroom and immediately noticed his big trainers, the ones that sat next to the door, were gone. Dammit, she’d missed him. Her anger faded as she sat down on the edge of the bed, her elbows on her knees.

Calmer now, Bea scooted back on the big bed and wrapped her arms around her bended knees. She looked at his messy side of the bed and remembered how wonderful it felt to lie in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

She wasn’t the type of woman who had casual sex, and she never thought she’d indulge in heavy petting in a pool her godma often used at night. She banged the heel of her palm against her forehead as she remembered Gib’s face between her thighs, the way he took her clit between his teeth…

She throbbed and she squirmed at the strange feeling. She was furious with him, so why was she thinking about how he made her feel?

She shouldn’t be thinking about sexat all.

But the images of what he’d done, and how he’d made her feel, and how much he seemed to enjoy what they did, rolled through her mind, an old-fashioned projector throwing slides onto her mental screen. She’d enjoyed what they did, she’d enjoyedhim.

But she had to be sensible and see last night for what it was. She needed to be unemotional and clear-headed. Sex was a great stress reducer, an excellent way to get out of her head for a while. As a single, adult woman, she was entitled to pleasure and was allowed to have a fling. What she wasn’t allowed to do was to imagine this was more than what it was: they were just two people who were attracted to each other. No more, no less.

She had to be smart and stop this madness in its tracks. And that meant no more hand jobs and heavy petting. No sex at all.

Gib was a complication she didn’t need, and she didn’t like feeling out of control. And, dammit, she knew it would only take one look from his marvellous eyes and she’d remember his mouth on hers, his hand running over her butt to haul her into him. One lift of that sexy mouth and she’d recall his talented mouth on her breasts, between her legs…

She’d just have to get the hell over herself.

A long time ago, she’d accepted that she was much better at creating relationships between the characters in her books than she was in real life. At least when she got things wrong in her manuscript, she had a delete button she could use to erase mistakes, and no one –especially her –got hurt in the process. This morning’s suck-fest was a wake-up call that she wasn’t good at the man/woman dynamic and that she should stay clear and keep her distance. She’d looked for love and validation in the wrong places and with the wrong men before, and she didn’t want to repeat past mistakes. Couldn’t repeat them. Wouldn’t allow herself to.

No, this stopped. Today.

She just had to figure out how to get him out of this cottage.

Again.

This was starting to become a habit.

* * *

‘Asshole.’

Navy’s voice sounded as clear as it would if he were next to him. Gib wiped the sweat off his forehead and checked his watch. He’d left the cottage forty minutes ago and he’d been running at pace, and he was six miles in, way past Oia. Because he wasn’t paying attention, what he thought would be a five-mile run was likely going to end up being a twelve-mile-plus slog. It served him right for being a douchebag.

‘I know.But you know how I am in the mornings before I have coffee.’ It was a weak excuse and he despised himself for making it.

Navy, because he always called Gib on his bullshit, didn’t give him an out. ‘Actually, I called you an asshole for forgetting to pack condoms. Whodoesthat?’

Yeah, not his finest moment.

‘But you are a dick for lashing out at her. Wait, is asshole worse than being called a dick? I can never remember,’ Navy said. ‘You’re an asshole-dick-bastard. There, all bases covered.’

Gib was just grateful Navy didn’t quote Shakespeare, telling him ‘thou art a boil, a plague sore’. In his teens, Navy’d been hooked on Shakespeare, Tolkien and Chaucer and had peppered his friends with quotes, story plots and seventeenth-century insults. It had been a testament to Navy’s good nature and popularity that he hadn’t had his head shoved into a toilet.

‘You aren’t a kid, Gibson, so you’re old enough to know you can’t take out your bad moods on the people around you,’ Navy told him, sounding just like Uncle Hugh, and to be honest, Gib’s dad. And, yeah, a part of Gib felt like he was eleven again.

He squinted at the bright Aegean sea –wishing he’d remembered to bring his sunglasses –feeling even worse than he did earlier. If that was even possible.

‘You owe her an apology, Gib.’

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