While She Was Sleeping.... Isabel Sharpe
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SAWYER KERN opened his eyes. Had he heard something or dreamed it? He frowned. The ceiling looked wrong. Where was his fan? Who had taken his ceiling fan?
He lifted his head, grimacing at the effort. What the—
The room wasn’t remotely familiar. Where the hell was he? How did he get here? He couldn’t remember a damn thing.
His head dropped back; he tried to focus his fuzzy brain, which didn’t want to focus at all. Was he still dreaming? He didn’t think so.
Party…okay, yes, he’d been at a party. His brother Finn threw a coed bachelor party for a friend at a local bar. Right. That was it. He’d had a few drinks. More than usual. Some kind of vodka he thought, mixed with other stuff. His head still didn’t feel right. Too big. Or maybe too small.
Wait. He hadn’t had that many, had he? He’d never been blacked-out drunk in his life. Never. Not even close. Spins a few times, that was it.
But somehow he’d ended up here. Wherever here was. He squinted, frowning, trying to concentrate.
Wait. Something else was coming to him. At the party. Last thing he remembered he’d been talking to a beautiful brunette. A very hot beautiful brunette. An artist. No, she was in insurance. No. Both? Neither? He remembered thinking she was being aw-fully friendly and he remembered not minding at all. It had been a while since a woman came on to him.
Then…yes, someone had offered him another drink, a different one, “specialty of the house.” Whatsisname, Finn’s friend from college, from the group which never managed to graduate mentally from fraternity days. The one Sawyer never liked or trusted.
Still, he’d accepted. One more drink wouldn’t hurt, that’s what he’d thought, but then he’d stop. How many total? Three? Four? Not more.
The brunette had declined, rolling her eyes. Sawyer had decided from something the fraternity jerk said that he and the brunette had a past, that her interest had ended but his hadn’t. What was her name? Deb? Debbie? Deborah? Something.
He’d had the drink, was chatting with Deb…whatever. And then…
Nothing. Nothing after that.
What the hell had he…Phil, that was his name. Phil. What had been in that drink? More than alcohol. Something that completely—
He heard the sound again. The one that woke him. A low sigh/moan, the kind a woman makes when she’s aroused.
Uh-oh. He turned his head and saw the outline of a shoulder against the barest glow from a streetlight creeping in around the shades. Speaking of the hot brunette. He must have gone home with her.
No. He looked around the room again; this time the details clicked. He’d brought her to Melanie’s. He remembered that much now. He’d known better than to drive, so he’d walked here. Melanie had already given him a key to the house.
Okay, regroup.
So…this incredible artist-or-insurance-agent brunette had agreed to come home with him even wasted to the point where he could barely function?
Wow. On a very shallow “guy” level, he was quite impressed with himself. She hadn’t had the “specialty of the house” spiked with God knew what, so her decision must have been based on actual rational thought. Or as rational as thought could get when hormones took control.
So, hey. He’d left thirty behind a couple of years ago, but he wasn’t dead yet.
His one-night stand stirred and rolled to her back, head turned away from him. Funny, he remembered her hair shorter. But then who knew what had happened to his mind last night?
And while he was at it, who knew what had happened to his body? Whatever it was—and from the hungry way she’d looked at him it promised to be good—he couldn’t believe he’d missed it.
He turned on his side, gazing down at what he could see of her. She smelled good. Womanly and fresh. He hadn’t noticed last night in the crowded room. Maybe she wouldn’t mind a replay of whatever they did when they got here. He was still under the influence of something, but this time he was pretty sure he’d remember the whole thing.
“Hey. Deb…bie…orah.”
“Mmph.” She moved again, turned toward him. The sheet slid off her shoulder to reveal the top few inches of a low-cut and very sexy clingy camisole which she filled out much better than he’d have thought from the slender frame he remembered. He hadn’t even undressed her? Had they been in that much of a frantic hurry? Damn, why couldn’t he remember?
Unless…nothing had happened. Maybe he’d completely humiliated himself by not being able to perform under the influence of whatever jerk-Phil spiked that last drink with. He hoped he’d at least made something happen for her.
Maybe he hadn’t even been able to do that. Maybe that was Phil’s plan.
He cringed. This time he’d do everything right. His body was already reacting, just to her nearness.
“Deb.” He traced her plunging neckline with a gentle finger.
“Mmm.” She frowned and pursed her lips, which were gray in the dim light, but which he remembered as red and full, the kind you wanted to kiss the second you saw them.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Even more beautiful than last night when I could see you.”
That didn’t come out right. His brain was definitely still muddled. But another part of his body was wide-awake and full of a very clear purpose. She looked like a black-and-white movie star, her skin the creamy end of gray where it had been gold in the light, her hair jet-black where it had been reddish brown. Cream-gray breasts, black shadow between them. His lips found the spot; her soft, round flesh embraced his jaw.
She gave a soft moan that made him want to grab her camisole and tear it off with his teeth. Instead, he moved his hand up her strong, firm calf, over the swell of her hamstring to the firm rounding of her ass, which had filled out jeans in a way that could bring grown men to tears.
He still couldn’t believe this incredible woman had come home with him. Er, to his temporary home. With Melanie.
Uh-oh. He hadn’t cleared the bringing-women-home thing with her. He hoped she wouldn’t be upset. Not like it would happen all the time.
Debbie moaned again as his fingers explored underneath her soft low-slung boxers, and he decided to worry about the details later. Melanie was a big girl. She’d handle it. Right now he had a woman to wake up and enjoy.
He slid her straps down and his tongue found her nipple, which he investigated thoroughly, then moved to the other. His fingers found moisture between her legs, probed and teased up and down the crevice, still reaching from behind her.
Her head lifted briefly from the pillow; her lips parted. Her eyes stayed closed.
She had to be pretending. No one could sleep through being touched like this. And he could tell by her occasional gasps and irregular breathing that he wasn’t exactly boring her to sleep.
Unless she’d had some “specialty of the house” at some point later in the evening and was still blacked out while responding subconsciously to him?
Kinky. He loved it.
Though if she hadn’t come home with him in her right mind, it would be pretty ungentlemanly of him to take advantage of her senseless state now by making love to her.
Wouldn’t it.
Could he open the window and throw his conscience out?
Except…if he pleasured her, there was no taking advantage. He was dying to taste her, to keep touching her and torturing himself with her desire. She’d been so sexy to him just standing there at the party. Writhing and turned on in his bed? Ten times more.