I quickly fold my arms over my chest, like that’s going to fix anything about this situation.
His brow lifts, and it makes him look even sexier if possible. “If you weren’t watching me sleep, then what were you doing?”
“Well, I was wondering, why in the bloody fuck are you in my villa?”
“Bloody fuck?” He smirks.
“Don’t change the subject. Why are you in my villa?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“As much as I’d love to debate the fact with you—because I have a feeling arguing with you would be fun—I can’t be bothered because I’m deadass tired. I had a shitty night’s sleep on a child-sized sofa. You’re welcome, by the way.”
He stretches his big arms above his head, and I’m momentarily mesmerized by them. They really are big. I bet he could pick me up and not even break a sweat.
“You’re staring again.”
“No, I’m not,” I bite.
Although I should have no problem with objectifying him. If he doesn’t want me to, then he shouldn’t go around shirtless. Or have abs like that. Even if he did just wake up. He should put a shirt on.
Says the woman who’s still standing in her day-old underwear.
“I thought I saw a mosquito on your arm.”
“Sure you did, Double D.”
“What did you just call me?” I’m wide-eyed, ready to smack him down. And I’m not even a double-D cup. I’m a D cup. Okay, there’s not much difference, but it’s so not the point.
“Double D,” he repeats.
“And you don’t think that’s, uh, a tad inappropriate?”
“Your name is Dillon Dawson, right?”
“Yes …”
“So, you’re Double D. Dillon Dawson.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Hilarious. But Dillon will do just fine.”
“Whatever you say, Double D.” He gets to his feet and stretches his body out, and I’m too mesmerized to tell him off for the second time.
I mean … fuck me.
With a dildo.
Repeatedly.
He’s huge. Like really bloody tall. Six-three, minimum. And he’s built. Muscles as far as the eye can see, and trust me, I’m looking. Really looking.
He has a jaw that looks like it was carved by the gods themselves. Roman nose that’s definitely been broken in his lifetime. Intense gray eyes. Kissable full lips. Basically, he’s gorgeous. And his hair … damn. It’s surfer, sun-kissed dirty-blond hair that grazes those massive shoulders of his. It’s hair that you want to reach out and grab hold of during sex or when his head is situated between your legs. Either way, I’m not fussy.
He looks like a movie star. He’s that kind of good-looking. Like he should be on TV or in a magazine or up on a billboard somewhere.
I wish I were exaggerating because without even looking in the mirror, I’m guessing that I currently look like a troll that just crawled out from under her bridge.
Trust me to meet the hottest of the fucking hot when I look like this. And also smell like a stale brewery.
As he turns and lowers his arms, I notice that he has another tattoo on the inside of his bicep on his right arm, but I don’t get a good look at it.
He walks away from me and over to the coffee machine. “You want a coffee?” he asks.
I can’t stop staring at the muscles in his back, and they move underneath his tattoo. It’s mesmerizing.
Realizing I haven’t answered him, I snap myself out of my stupor. “Pretty sure I can make myself a coffee. And I’m sure you can make one in your own villa.”
He turns, coffee pod in his hand, that damn smirk back on his handsome face. “Do you remember anything about last night?”
“Um … a little.”
Another husky laugh. “I brought you back to your villa, which happens to be right next to mine, and you realized that you’d locked your key inside it, which you thought was funny as fuck. It was too late to go back to reception to get you a replacement key, and honestly, I didn’t want to carry you to reception and then back here again. So, I brought you to my villa.” He waves a hand around.
I follow his hand around and spot an iPad and laptop on the coffee table, which definitely don’t belong to me. I know I left my suitcase in the doorway, where concierge had left it. I decided to get wasted instead of unpacking. I lean back and look at the front door. Empty.
I got wasted, had to be carried back to my villa, which I’d locked myself out of, and ended up sleeping in his.
Which was actually really decent of him.
I wince. “So, when you say, carried me …”
“You just jumped up on me. Didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Oh.” I wince again. “I’m so sorry. I can be … a bit overfriendly when I’m drunk.”
He chuckles, and the sound is really nice. “Figured that when you were telling me how hot you thought I was.”
No.
Please.
No.
Kill me now.
My whole body is on fire. Pretty sure I’m the color of a tomato.
Why, God, why?! Haven’t I suffered enough?!
Not that having a gorgeous man carry me and put me to bed is suffering, but knowing that I was drunk as a skunk and saying the most embarrassing things to him is beyond suffering. And he’s staying in the villa across from mine, and we’re on a tiny island, meaning I will most definitely have to face him again.
Not that I can get any lower than I am.
Fuuuuck.
I swallow past the rocks of embarrassment in my throat. I’m such an overconfident fucking twat when I’m drunk. “Uh … can I ask … did you and I … well, did we have sex?”
He presses the button on the coffee machine and turns to face me. He leans back against the table and folds his arms across that magnificent chest of his. “Call me old-fashioned, but I like a woman to be sober and conscious when I fuck her.”
The way he says fuck in that sexy American accent sends shivers all the way down to my toes.
“Okay, well, that’s good then.” It is because, damn, I would have hated to forget having sex with him. “So, I’ll just get my clothes and be out of your way. Thanks for taking care of me.”
“No problem at all.”
“Um, you don’t happen to know where my clothes are?” I ask, looking around for them.
“Should be down near the side of the bed. That’s where you threw them when you stripped.” He points to the side of the bed I’m not at.
And the hits just keep coming.
I stripped my clothes off? I figured I’d just undressed for bed. But stripped off? For fuck’s sake, Dillon.
Cringing, I ask, “Please tell me that I didn’t do an actual striptease for you.”
He turns back to me, coffee in his hand now, brow raised. “You do that when you’re drunk? Damn, if I’d known, I’d have put in a request.”
His lips lift at the corner. It’s sexy as hell. Well, all of him is.
“Not usually. But I wouldn’t put anything past drunk me.”
“Noted,” he says, a twinkle in his eye before he takes a sip of his coffee.
“Right, well, I’ll just grab my clothes then …” I skirt around the bed, and because I don’t want to have to walk past him, I go the long way around, meaning I have to walk around the dividing wall that the head of the bed is pushed up against. Grabbing my clothes and shoes, I all but run into the bathroom.