Page 74 of What if It's Us

I could never get too much of Ledger Dayne.

Especially not when he’s between my legs.

The sheets are tangled around my knees, one of them hanging halfway off the bed, a toe poking into the cool air of my…wait. I open my eyes.

Oh…

I mean Ledger’s hotel room.

I don’t remember when we finally fell asleep last night but I do remember his breath against my neck, the weight of his hand tracing the slope of my hip like he was trying to memorize it, thefullness of his thick cock as he lazily rocked into me and then, eventually, stillness.

I roll over slowly, feeling the creak in my muscles, the slight sting along the inside of my thighs—physical remnants of the night that had been more want than words.

Though his words were part of my undoing.

“I like knowing you’ll be reminded of me as I drip out of you.”

“I could spend forever wrapped up in you.”

“I’ll fill you with a thousand children plus a thousand more, Marlee. I’d do anything for you. Give you the fucking world if you ask for it.”

Ledger’s gone. Not entirely—his scent still lingers on the pillow beside me, something clean and masculine, skin and soap and heat—but the space is empty now, covers thrown back, his warmth evaporated. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as memories of us in the shower together last night play back in my mind.

Ledger’s soapy hands.

The softness of his touch over my breasts.

The way he knew exactly how to play my body.

The attractively carnal yet heartwarmingly tender way in which he filled me over and over again.

More times than I could have ever imagined.

I sit up, regretting it instantly as the room tips slightly to the left.

Is it even possible to be hungover from too much sex?

Is that a thing?

Groaning under my breath, I rub at my temple with the heel of my hand.

Water.

I need water and maybe a slice of toast, or better yet, a really strong cold brew would be great.

Slipping my feet to the floor, I take a breath. The kind that stretches your ribs and tries to convince you that this is just another morning. But it’s not. Not exactly. Something has shifted. It’s subtle, like the way the tide changes without asking permission. I feel it in my chest. It’s not regret. Not by any means, but something else. Something I’m not sure I have the right words for yet.

There’s something else I don’t have words for quite yet, and that’s the unmistakable sound of a man attempting to sing “Uptown Girl” in the shower. Badly.

I guess thereissomething in this world that Ledger can’t do.

Billy Joel he is not.

I blink twice, curling my lips over my teeth to keep from giggling too loudly as I creak open the bathroom door. There he is in all his glory—naked except for a towel hanging dangerously low on his hips, hair sticking out in every direction, steam billowing behind him like he just emerged from a rock concert fog machine.

Good Lord, parts of that body were inside mine not even four hours ago.

And as tired as I am I don’t regret a thing.

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