He used to ask permission before doing anything to my body he was anxious to try out but wasn’t sure I’d be comfortable with. While that was sweet and considerate of him, this man he’s become, one who takes what he wants without asking, is pretty damn hot, too.
I feel the bed shift when he slips back in beside me I’m shattered. Empty. Drained of all life-sustaining matter.
“Tired, babe?”
I think maybe I grunt something in response. Strong arms wrap around me and I’m cocooned in warmth.
Beam me up, God. Pretty sure I can die happy now.
“Sweet dreams, pretty girl,” Dallas whispers in my ear.
Maybe I’m already dreaming.
Waking up in a strange hotel room without any clothes on isn’t a familiar experience or one I have any requisite protocol for.
My senses come back to me slowly and one at a time.
I’m cold. Naked. And I can hear music playing softly from across the room.
It’s still dark outside, but there’s a lamp on in the room. I don’t see it but I can tell by the golden glow it emits.
My first instinct is to reach for my phone. Not just because that’s what I do every morning when I first wake up, but because I’m slightly concerned I might have to call for help.
The décor in the room isn’t familiar and just as I contemplate turning to see who’s playing music in the barely lit corner, my night comes back to me like a freight train barreling at full speed.
Dallas.
The concert.
The diner.
The slap heard ’round the world.
Okay, maybe just ’round the parking lot at Rosa’s Diner, but still.
And holy blueberries on oatmeal pancakes, the sex.
My muscles are sore and relaxed all at once. My entire body feels like it barely survived a Thai massage. Every tension-filled muscle knot has been steamrolled from existence. Naked between expensive hotel sheets I feel sexy and aroused and . . . alone.
I twist to the side as much as my aching body will allow and see Dallas sitting at the table. He’s writing furiously while most of his magnificently nude body is blocked by his guitar.
Hello.
All of my synapses begin firing away at once, demanding I somehow lure him back to bed. Immediately.
Conflicted emotions swirl into a dangerous storm inside me.
This was a mistake.
This was the hottest night of my life.
I’m going to regret this for the rest of my life.
God, he looks good over there, all bare muscles and music notes.
I want to hear what he’s working on.
I shouldn’t interrupt him.
Tormented by tumultuously conflicting urges, I rake a hand through my wild hair—hoping it doesn’t look as messy as it feels—and sit up.
I don’t want to screw with his process, especially since he mentioned he hadn’t been writing. But day-um. Why does he have to look so scrumptious? It’s like having someone deliver a decadent slice of double chocolate cake drizzled in hot fudge right to your door and telling you all you can do is look at it.
I strain to hear him, but I can’t make out the tune or the words he’s muttering as he writes.
He’s writing.
He said he hasn’t written in a while.
Could our night together have inspired a song?
Stop making this into more than it is.
Right. Got it. But just in case it was the sex that got his musical mojo flowing, don’t I owe it to him, to all people with the ability to hear, to do whatever it takes to make sure he doesn’t get blocked again?
That settles it.
If I’m going to regret tonight eventually anyway, I’m going to regret it as much as I possibly can.
13 | Dallas
RIGHT AFTER THE MOST AMAZING SEX OF MY LIFE, ROBYN FELL asleep and rolled over onto her side facing away from me. I don’t know how long I stared at the smooth curves of her body, her spine, her hip, her shoulder, before growing impossibly hard again. She was resting so peacefully I’d decided not to wake her for round two, but there was too much going on in my head to fall asleep myself.