Page 34 of Seductive Scoundrel

My eyelids weigh a pound each,but I force them open anyway and see – him. Last night wasn’t just a dream. The sex wasn’t just a fantasy. He isn’t just a figment of my imagination or some weirdo, pretending to be someone he isn’t.

Nope. Mr. Big Dick is everything that he promised. He’s everything I imagined – and so much more.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Dean greets, planting a soft kiss on my forehead.

His minty breath wafts into my nose, reminding me of how – not fresh – my breath must be. Not to mention the fact that I probably look like a hungover homeless person. We stayed up most of the night having sex, talking, laughing, having more sex, and drinking a selection of the most incredible wines. Although Dean drank as many glasses as I did, he didn’t seem affected.

Looking at him, it’s not hard to tell that he wasn’t. There are no dark circles or puffy red eyes, just a bit of delicious scruff on his jaw.

On the other hand, I feel like hell and probably look like I belong there.

“Morning,” I mumble, trying to discreetly pick the crud out of my eyes. “I’m just going to freshen up, and then leave you to get on with your day. Thanks for last night. It was, um, fun.”

Fun.

That’s not the right word to describe the best night of my life, but anything closer to the truth would make me sound pathetic – and like I live in a bubble – which isn’t too far off lately.

I try to turn away to hide morning me, but Dean’s arms tighten, holding me in place.

“You have no reason to hide, Mia. And you don’t have to run away.” He presses his lips against mine, and I hope he can’t taste what I do. Whatever’s growing in my mouth definitely isn’t minty.

“Don’t you have a million things to do?” I ask, burying my face in his neck, my fingers running over the stubble covering his jaw.

“I always have a million things to do. But I remember something about you making breakfast. Why don’t you freshen up while I check my messages? I’ll meet you in the kitchen. I put one of my T-shirts on the counter in the bathroom. Although you look sexy as hell in that dress, I doubt it’ll be easy to cook in.”

I shift back, my eyes creeping up to meet his. “What do you want for breakfast?”

A slow grin spreads across his sexy face. “Surprise me. Jeffrey said you got in touch and he arranged to have everything you asked for delivered. I’ve never had so much food in my house.”

“I thought having breakfast together was just pre-pillow talk. To be honest, I assumed you were going to send me home last night.”

The look that flashes across his face confirms it’s his usual MO, which doesn’t make sense – because I’m still here.

“Well, if I sent you home last night, I wouldn’t be able to fuck you senseless in the other ten rooms of my penthouse – now would I?”

Dean heads towards the door, and I can’t tear my eyes away from his perfect ass. The way those tight, black boxer briefs hug every curve is obscene.

Just before he reaches the door, Dean turns back, a puzzled look on his face. “If you expected to go home last night, what’s happening with your dog?”

“Dog?”

The confused expression on Dean’s face intensifies as I hop out of bed – and land on my face, his million thread count sheet twisted around my ankles.

“Shit,” I mutter, pulling at the material holding me captive.

“Are you all right?” he asks rushing over and plucking me off the floor.

I kick at the sheet while my face turns into a raging inferno. “I’m ah, ah, ah, I’m just going to go ah,” I stammer, pushing against his chest before rushing into the bathroom.

After I click the lock in place, I stand in front of the stadium-sized mirror looking at my reflection, wishing it wasn’t me. The woman staring back looks like she slept in the park instead of a penthouse.

“What fucking dog?” I ask her, hoping she knows something I don’t.

“Thanks for nothing,” I hiss when she doesn’t respond.

I grab my purse, rummaging for my travel toothbrush. Years of wearing braces instilled the importance of never leaving home without one – and right now, I’m eternally grateful. Sitting through math class with chunks of tuna salad sandwich stuck in the front of my braces is something I’ll never forget. Jimmy Thomas announcing to the class, “Mia forgot to eat her lunch,” is another thing.

An eternity later, I slink into the kitchen, looking a million times better yet feeling on edge. Apparently, I have a dog, who I know nothing about, and thinking on the fly has never been a particular strength of mine. I failed tenth-grade drama for a reason.

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