Christ’s sake. My head is pounding, and my mouth is as dry as sand.
Where the hell am I?
Oh yeah. On my honeymoon. Alone.
And I’m pretty sure I drank the island dry last night.
So, there is that.
I lift a hand to my head.
What happened last night?
I remember starting on that bottle of champagne. On a mostly empty stomach. Except for the banana I ate.
My stomach roils.
Ugh. Fuck. Don’t think about food.
I know I left my villa to go to the bar in search of more alcohol. Found the bar. There was definitely more drinking at the bar. Pretty sure I was talking to someone there as well. Then … nothing.
For fuck’s sake.
I send up a silent prayer. Please, God, don’t let me have made an arse out of my—
I hear a low, deep moan. Which definitely didn’t come from me. And definitely sounded male.
Oh God, please no. Don’t let me have hooked up with a complete stranger.
Peeking open one eye, I wince at the light.
And see that there’s a man asleep on the chaise at the end of my bed.
Holy fuuuuck.
My first night here, and there’s a guy in my room. At least he’s not in bed with me. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t have sex.
I run a hand over my body.
I’m in my underwear. No clothes.
Shit.
Okay. Don’t panic. I have my panties on. That’s a good sign, right? I’d be sans panties and the guy would be in bed with me if we’d had sex.
Or at least, that’s what I’m hoping.
Drunken sex with a complete stranger is so not what I need right now.
I’m not actually sure what I need, truth be told. Apart from a shower and a coffee. I can figure shit out from there.
First off, I need to find out who the hell this guy is.
Forcing my other eye open, I wipe the sleep from them with my hand and rise up onto my elbows to get a better look at the guy.
Damn, my head is killing me.
He’s on his side, facing away from me. All I can see is a mass of dirty-blond hair.
Who the hell is he? And why is he in my villa?
A quick trawl of my memory doesn’t bring up anything from last night. But also, my brain is still awash with last night’s alcohol, so no surprise there.
Deciding I need to get a better look at him, I crawl down the bed a little.
Jesus, he barely fits on that chaise. His legs are hanging right off it. It can’t be comfortable for him on there at all.
He’s shirtless. Nice back. There are actual muscles on it. I’ve never seen muscles on a man’s back before. Well, not in real life anyway. Tim definitely didn’t have back muscles. He had arm and chest muscles but definitely none on his back.
And I really need to stop thinking about back muscles.
Strange man in my villa also has a large tattoo on his back. It looks like a black bird in flight. It’s really cool.
My eyes scan down. He’s wearing shorts.
Another plus to the fact that we didn’t have sex. No man I’ve ever known would get dressed after sex. Unless he’s weird, which knowing me and the men I attract, that wouldn’t be a stretch. Christ, Tim wouldn’t even get up to dispose of the condom. He’d tie a knot in it and leave it on the floor, knowing it would gross me out so I’d get up and dispose of it.
My eyes move down those long legs. Also muscular. Tanned with just the right amount of hair on them. Feet are bare. He actually has nice feet for a man.
Why in the hell am I thinking about his feet?
I really do have some fucking weird thoughts at times.
He makes a mumbling sound and turns over onto his back. All of my muscles lock up.
Then, I see his face.
Oh.
OH.
Sweet Lawd.
A flood of memories from last night hits me.
It’s the hot guy from the bar. And when I say hot, I mean, hawt.
Like Pitt and Hemsworth hawt.
Now, I’m kind of gutted that I didn’t have sex with him.
I do a mental tour of my vagina just to be sure, but sadly, everything appears normal down there. Doesn’t feel like I’ve had sex.
Gutted.
I mean, he’s a big guy, so I’m figuring I’d be a little sore if we’d had sex. Unless he has a tiny cock.
And that would just be a damn, damn shame.
What is his name though? I know he told me last night. It’s something to do with a direction … like a compass.
Is it Compass? Of course it’s not Compass, you idiot. God, what’s he called? What’s he called? Come on, brain … think …
West!
His name is West.
That’s it. Hot West with the sexy American accent. See, I do remember something from last night!
I might not remember why he’s asleep on the chaise in my villa, and I might only be ninety-five percent sure that we didn’t have sex due to my investigation into our state of dress. Although I am holding on to that five percent that we did bump uglies—or his gorgeous with my ugly because my eyes just landed on his chest, and holy mother of pearl, it’s magnificent.
Muscles everywhere. I’ve never seen so many muscles in all my life. He has abs. Like actual, real abs. I’ve never seen abs on a man in real life. Only on TV, in pictures, and in porn movies.
What? Every healthy woman should watch porn. It’s educational. And some of the guys are fit as fuck. And they fuck like I’ve categorically never experienced in real life.
I definitely need to get a better look at these abs.
Stealthily, I crawl down the bed to get a better look.
And … oh, hello there.
He is rocking some serious morning wood. It’s showing very visibly through the fabric of his sleep shorts.
Now, I know for sure that we didn’t have sex because I would definitely be feeling something this morning if that monster erection had been inside me.
Okay, this is getting creepy, even for me. I’m on the bed on all fours, staring at the abs and morning wood of a complete stranger, and—
“What are you doing?”
five
Dillon
I jump back at the sound of his deep voice and fall off the bed.
“Argh!” I cry out, my back and butt hitting the hard floor.
“Um, should I ask if you’re okay?” His deep, gravelly voice travels over the bed, to where I’m laid out on the floor.
“No,” I grump.
“You need help getting up?”
“Again, no.” I push myself up to a sitting position, and using the bed, I pull myself up to standing.
He’s still lying there on the chaise, all that glorious bare chest on show.
“You really shouldn’t watch people while they’re sleeping, you know. It’s creepy.”
“I wasn’t watching you sleep!” My hands go to my hips. Which I realize are bare. As is most of my body, except for the parts covered by my underwear.
A quick glance tells me that, yes, I’m still wearing my comfy, ugly-as-fuck white bra and panties, which I put on to travel here in. I still haven’t changed.
It’s official. I’m gross.
And I’m standing in front of the hottest man I’ve ever seen in real life in fugly underwear. And I have no clue what state my hair is in.
Fuck my life.