Though my memories replay too vividly to have been a dream, I find no other explanation. When Crowell has laced my coke with other things, I’ve hallucinated once or twice. My delusions were really real. Like real, real, real.
My door opens and I lift my head. A shocked gasp catches in my throat. “What are you doing here?”
Sloane saunters further into my room and glowers down at me. He still wears that Limited Edition T-shirt and is in jeans again. Onstage, he wears leather. I’m disappointed that I’ve not seen him in those pants in person.
That doesn’t stop me from seeing the bulge of his cock. Memories of his texture and taste assail me. If I didn’t feel so awful, I’d suck his dick again.
That is why he’s returned. Right? I gave him what he wanted without questions and he’s spending time with me. That still doesn’t explain why he was at my parents’ house, though.
His dark hair is messier than…whenever I saw him. The intensity in his eyes makes my breath hitch.
“Why are you here?”
A cough escapes me and it hurts my back. My lungs feel tight and restricted. It reminds me that I’m naked. I cover my breasts, my face flaming. I can no longer meet his eyes.
He sighs and crouches in front of me. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t get your boyfriend to supply more drugs to you. I wanted to make sure you awakened after you swallowed pool water.”
I forget my state of undress and blink at him. The sensation of floating returns to me. The freedom of flying through the air. Slamming into the water and having it rush against my head, overcoming me. I hit the water really hard. No wonder I’m sore.
I frown at Sloane. “Did you tell on me?”
He gives me a half-smile. “Who, in this house, cares enough about you, for me to have told?”
“My dad.” I bite out the lie. At one time, he truly cared about what I did. So did my mom. Now, Dad’s distracted and, sometimes, nothing but resentment wafts from Mom. If only she knew how much I admire her and crave more time with her. My mom would be the person to mention this to. Maybe, I will. Maybe, that’ll be a turning point for us. “My mother cares about me, too.” I add this, needing to tell someone to make it true.
A shrug meets my hostile comment. He doesn’t believe me. “Okay, George.”
Agitated at the sound of his sexy voice using the name Crowell calls me, I hop to my feet. “Don’t call me George. My name’s Georgiana, or Georgie.”
He shoots up, too, towering over me. Muscles stretch his t-shirt and knot his arms. Beautiful blue eyes search my face, and he runs his fingers through his dark hair. One swath escapes, falling onto his forehead. It adds to his yummy, bad-boy disarray. His jawline is strong and defined with stubble. When he ate me, he’d been smooth-shaven, so I wonder how the five o’clock shadow would feel against my thighs. Soft? Abrasive? Would I barely notice a difference? I adore his hooped earrings but I can’t remember how they felt when I was splayed open for his tongue’s enjoyment.
As if he reads my dirty thoughts, his gaze falls to my lips and I lick them as if he’s pushed a button for me to do so.
“Who let you in?” I glance behind me. The clock on the wall blares 2:13 in big, green letters. More than once when I’ve been high, I’ve sworn the neon green is some type of alien signal. “Never mind. I don’t think anyone’s here. I can get you out. Just tell me who let you in so I can ask them not to—“
“Rat you out?”
I giggle at the humor in his voice. I feel shy and awkward and…OMG, I’m still naked. My mind is unfocused. Usual after the kind of night I had. Minus the pool dive from my balcony, the rest is par for the course.
“I climbed through the window I saw you clamber through.”
I’m still high. Why else would Sloane Mason, the superstar rocker I’ve been in love with forever, be in my suite, telling me he scaled a freaking window?
Planting my hands on my hips, I cock my head to the side, thinking of something to say and coming up short. He has girls throwing themselves at him and I don’t know how to compete with that.
He kisses my forehead and frowns. “You’re hot. I think you have fever.”
“I’m fine.”
“Get in the shower,” he orders me. “Clean yourself up. I have to get to the stadium for set up. I slept downstairs on your patio.”
“The patio.”
His lips tighten. “I didn’t trust you not to take another dive.”
Headiness swamps me and my heart jumps at his words. “You could’ve slept in my room.”
Desire darkens his eyes. “No, Georgie. I couldn’t. I’ve already crossed the line with you.”
“I told you I was eighteen.”
“It was my responsibility to ask for proof.”
“Proof?” I jeer. “Hello? Fake ID.”
“Jeessuuus Chriist.” As he draws the words out, he turns in a tight circle and rubs his jaw.
I wheeze out, “You could’ve slept on my balcony.
“Still too close to you. Climbing a fucking tree to get to you is enough of a deterrent.”