The Unidentified Redhead (Redhead #1)(30)
Author: Alice Clayton

I moaned softly. I had to stop this. I smacked his hand away and rolled to the other side of the bed, my back to him.

“We have to stop, this is insane. I literally cannot handle any more. I think I’ve lost brain function. I can actual y feel myself becoming stupid,” I complained, digging under the covers and burying my face into the pillows. He steamrolled across the bed into me, sliding his hands beneath the covers and finding my hips. He molded his body into mine, pressing his chest into my back.

“Not possible. Let’s test it. What’s two times two?”

“Orange?” I giggled tiredly.

“Hmm, this is worse than I thought … let’s try another. What’s my name?”

“George?” I puzzled.

“George? Bloody George? Grace, I’m shocked,” he argued, pressing harder into me as I laughed. I could tell, and feel, where this was going.

“George, is it? Behave. There will be no more of that. My oonie can’t handle any more,” I protested on behalf of her, who of course was on a mission of her own. My body responded to him even when my brain was begging for rest.

“Settle, Sheridan. I am merely doing what all women seem to want.

Spooning, is it?” He chuckled lowly in my ear, raising the hairs on the back of my neck with his closeness.

“Well, then that’s fine. Quite nice, really,” I answered, giving a great yawn.

“It’s now sleepy time, George, and then when we wake up, we wil eat,” I finished, already starting to drift off.

“And then … ?”

“Then we’ll see.”

He was quiet for a moment and I thought he was finally asleep, when he laughed and said, “George and Gracie. It’s perfect.”

“Shut it, George.”

“Right then. Excellent,” he said, kissing me sweetly on the cheek, and with a final snuggle of that fine-ass body against mine, we fell asleep.

11:27 a.m.

When I woke up, I was still exactly where I’d fallen asleep, with Jack snuggled persistently, even in sleep, against me. I felt his strong arms around me, hands surrounding my br**sts, and I knew that I never wanted to leave this exact spot. Nevertheless, nature called.

I rolled over gently, trying not to wake him. He stirred in his sleep and I watched him drift away again, marveling at the way the light from the window danced across his face, showing the different shades of blonde and strawberry in his stubbly beard. I dusted my fingertips across his lips, and in his sleep, he kissed them. Not wanting to wake him further, I wrapped myself in the sheet that was on the floor and slipped from the bed, making my way to the bathroom.

I nearly groaned as my legs protested. I could barely carry my own weight. I was sore, and frankly, I had every right to be.

I avoided my reflection, taking care of business first, and then brushed my teeth. I splashed water on my face and finally looked.

It was terrifying.

My hair was a nightmare and there was mascara under my eyes like a rac-coon. My lips were incredibly swollen and puffy and the area around my mouth bore the battle scars of his scruff.

“Ridden hard and put away wet” was the phrase that sprang to mind.

Lowering the sheet, I examined myself further, each landmark bringing back a different memory of the night before. I saw nibbles on my breast where he had bit down a little too hard and the redness below my ni**les, also from his scruffy stubble.

Looking lower, there was my Hamilton Brand, the tiny, but quite deliberate, bite on the inside of my thigh. Seeing this brought back a wave that settled into the pit of my stomach. It had truly been unreal.

There had been none of the awkwardness that sometimes, usually, accompanied the first romp with someone new. Let’s face it, real life was not like a romance novel. Guys usually needed at least a little guidance on what felt good, at least the first few times.

Not our Mr. Hamilton.

He had known exactly what I needed and when I needed it. It was as if he was put on this earth for the sole purpose of giving me pleasure. Who am I to argue with intelligent design? Or the Big Bang. Speaking of bang …

We never actually had sex. And that was, kind of, well, nice. I loved that I still had so much to look forward to with him, so much we had yet to learn about each other. And if last night was any indication—oh hell.

My tummy growled. I needed sustenance.

I attempted to brush out the sex hair on the back of my head, finally giving up and sweeping the whole mess into two pigtails. I washed my face again, removing the traces of mascara and was debating on whether to shower now or after breakfast when I finally noticed the hickey.

A mother-loving hickey! I was thirty-three for Christ’s sake!

Thirty-three and in pigtails …

Shut it.

There was a hickey on the side of my neck the size of a quarter. I looked like I had argued with a Hoover and the Hoover won. Jesus. This is what you got for messing around with a twenty-four year old.

I opened the door quickly, preparing to confront Jack about this behavior, and explain to him that a grown woman simply cannot go around with hickeys on her neck, when I saw him in my bed. In my bed.

I softened when I noticed that he was sound asleep again, the sheets pulled low on his torso, arms up behind his head, mouth slightly open.

Are they shooting an Abercrombie ad in your bedroom today?

He was so pretty.

I quickly scooped up his shirt from last night, which smelled divine, and buttoned it up. I grabbed a pair of panties from the dresser and quietly stepped out into the hall. I wanted to let him sleep a little longer, and I needed coffee.

Once in the hall, I bent down to put on my panties when I heard Holly say from behind me, “That’s a view I never need to see again.” I quickly pulled them on home and turned to face her with a sheepish grin.

“Sorry,” I said with a wink, letting her know I was not sorry at all.

She pointed at the stairs. “Kitchen, two minutes. Coffee’s made. I want the details that I didn’t actually already hear myself.” You are in trouble.

I sat in the kitchen with my best friend, with the new “It Boy” asleep in the room above me, and tried to explain the grand events that had taken place last night in the greater L.A. area.

Holly listened as I recounted some of the sweeter moments, holding up her hand when I delved too deeply into details. She reminded me that she had heard the bulk of what had taken place, and I apologized repeatedly. She said not to worry, she and Nick had made popcorn and perched at the top of the stairs most of the night, listening.

I sat in one of her comfortable armchairs in the breakfast nook, with my legs underneath me, drowning in Jack’s shirt and in his scent. I was nibbling at a piece of toast, nursing a cup of coffee, when I heard stirring from above me. Hol y heard him as well, and as his feet slapped on the stairs, she made herself scarce.