Page 73 of Claiming Atlas
I laugh as I look up into his eyes. “Well, hello there.”
Atlas peers down at me and runs his tongue over his teeth. “You don’t want to talk? Fine.” He narrows his eyes and grinds against me. “Then I’m going to fuck you until you’re speechless.”
I open my mouth on a gasp and he takes that as an invitation. I’d be happy to never speak again if it means his lips are on mine.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Atlas
A door closes somewhere in the room, pulling me from slumber. Kayla must be in the bathroom. I open my eyes and look at the clock. It’s almost noon. The boys will be in town soon, if they aren’t already. I reach across the bed for my phone on the nightstand. There are three texts from Chris and one from Cade. They’re here.
I send a group text to the band to tell them I’ll be at the MGM for rehearsal by two o’clock.
That gives me two full hours to properly say goodbye to Kayla.
I stretch out in the bed, smiling as I think about all the things we did last night.
I’d planned on making her speechless, but when she screamed my name repeatedly, I failed.
Worth it.
I’ve always made it a priority to keep my hookups brief and to the point. A good fuck, or a BJ—sometimes both—and then it’s goodbye. Don’t let the door hit you on your ass on the way out. They want to fuck a star, so I give them that. But they don’t get more. Chicks never spend the night unless I’m too fucked up to kick them out of my bed, and in that case, I’m gone before they wake up and Red or one of the guys handles it for me.
Until now.
“Kayla?”
NowI want to keep Kayla in my bed for way more than the two nights we’ve spent together, and this fucking sucks. I’m starting to understand why she might have an aversion to goodbye. I roll over and press my face into her pillow, inhaling deeply, turn my head to the side and try again. “Kayla?”
When she doesn’t respond, I sit up and look around the room.
Her stuff is gone. The only thing that remains is what’s left of that black lace thong. At least she left me a souvenir. I jump out of bed and rush to the table where it sits on top of a piece of paper. She better have left her number, or a ‘be right back, I’ve gone for coffee’, or something other than a fucking Dear John goodbye letter.
I open the piece of paper and shake my head.
Just call me John.
