Page 8 of Blindside Sinner

I peek back at the bed, but the woman in it is still fast asleep. None of the housekeepers nor my personal chef have a voice like that—one that sounds like they’re purring their dirtiest thoughts out loud. It’s not my manager, who talks like he’s been smoking a pack a day for forty years, or my ex, thank fucking God.

So who the hell is in my room?

I peer down at the end of my bed, twist my head a little to the left, and close one eye to cheat the double-vision. That’s where I find my answer.

A woman I’ve never met in my whole damn life stands in front of my bathroom door. She’s beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, and smooth curves that I can almost feel under my palms. My dick stirs.

Her casual clothes are somewhat worn and fraying from overuse, not out of some sense of fashion. She’s not my type at all—I’m into plastic, Prada, and perfume, as evidenced by the busty blonde snoozing at my side—but there’s something about her that I want to prod at. Something that calls to me.

The desire to poke sets me on edge.

I don’t like it.

And, I decide quickly, I don’t like her.

“If this is a strippergram from Dixon again, I’m going to have to decline. As you can tell, I’ve already got someone in my bed. Next time, though.” Because I can’t help myself, I add, “Although if you want to join, that we can discuss.”

The stranger doesn’t react except to lift that eyebrow a little higher. “I’m not a strippergram, whatever the hell that even is. I’m your new alarm clock, seeing as how you just went all caveman on your old one.Beep-beep.Time to get up.”

“No can do. I’m sick.” To emphasize my point, I fake a cough and fall back onto the pillow.

“Again: you’re hungover, not sick.” Her voice is dry. Unamused. Disapproving.Hot. “I was told that it wasn’t an excuse for you to miss practice.”

I lift my head to look at her, fall back to the bed a second time, and pull the blankets up over my head. “Whatever you say, angel. I’m going to bed.”

The barely-audible whisper of her feet on the hardwood is the only warning I get before the warm covers are ripped unceremoniously off my body.

“Wrong again,” she proclaims.

I sit up, snarling, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Your new babysitter.”

I wait for her to get to the punchline, but she doesn’t. “Excuse me?” I growl. Last thing I needed is another babysitter or keeper or watchdog—whatever Vivian is calling it these days.

She tilts her head back and forth. All that hair waves with it. “Assistant, babysitter, alarm clock—it’s all the same thing. Pick whichever you like—I’m it.”

Disbelief and anger battle in my chest. Is she crazy? She has to be delusional, because there’s no way in hell I’m letting some five-foot-nothing wisp of a woman boss me around. Not in a million years.

“Like fuck you are. Listen, lady?—”

“That’s not my name.”

“Interrupt me again and you’ll find me even less agreeable than I am right now. Do you understand?”

The woman stares at me for a moment, a slight angry flush on her cheeks. I almost want to see how far the blush goes. Would it pinken her neck? Creep down between her breasts? If I parted her thighs?—

Focus, Beck.

The as-yet-nameless woman nods once, then turns to my bedmate. “Time for you to get up, hon,” she prods, orders of magnitude nicer than she was being to me.

I glance over. I can’t see anything but the shock of bottle blonde hair peeking out of the covers, but I recognize the tattoo at the base of her neck. The little butterfly symbol is sending hazy memory after hazy memory through my brain.

The not-a-babysitter girl meets my eyes and cocks a brow. I realize she’s waiting for something. When I don’t give it to her, she rolls her eyes with a scoff.

“What’s her name, Casanova?” she sighs.

I barely curb the desire to ask for her name instead. “Trina. Trixie. Tamara, maybe? Shit, I don’t remember.” I honestly don’t think I even asked. I scrub my face. “Listen?—”

---