Maybe beneath the sheets, pressed against my skin.
A drunken arsehole could dream.
I woke the next morning with a low, dull ache in the pit of my stomach, several sore body parts, and a painfully rock-hard cock. The scent of Phoebe’s perfume lingered everywhere. I could practically taste it on my tongue, and it made a low moan of appreciation fall from me as the night before came rushing back in a million fragmented memories.
When I opened my eyes, I looked around the room, wondering if everything involving her had been nothing but a dream, but I knew it hadn’t been the moment I saw a small note laid on the pillow in the empty space next to me.
My head pounded, and my stomach swirled with regret. Still, I couldn’t look away from the note, and I reached over for it, veryaware of how painful everything felt even with the smallest of movements.
Why the fuck did I feel bruised everywhere?
Sighing heavily, I grabbed the note, rolled onto my back, and brought it closer to me.
Henry,
I guess we’re even now. You carried me home the other night, now I’ve done the same for you. Maybe we don’t hate each other as much as we pretend to.
Hope the hangover isn’t too painful. I left some paracetamol next to your side of the bed. Take them. Maybe it’ll help with the whole ‘bear with a sore head’ vibe you give off… although I won’t hold my breath.
Phoebe. (AbsolutelynotCaptain) x
That kiss on the end felt like a door opening. An invitation to explore.
Despite everything hurting and the painful pressure in my dick, I read that note over and over again with a lazy smile on my face for far too long before I finally decided to slide my hand beneath the sheet and take care of myself with nothing but memories of her and those goddamn angel eyes in the forefront of my mind.
Whatever spell she’d cast on me, I couldn’t escape it now.
I didn’t even want to.
Chapter Twelve
Phoebe
Henry Cohen was grumpy, rude, and I never knew where I stood with him. He offered no likable qualities whatsoever, apart from his face and body, and he drove me insane with just a few words, frustrating me in ways not even Rob had ever managed to do.
Asleep, though, Henry had been something else entirely.
Seeing him peaceful, with one hand tucked under his cheek while his other rested on the bed between us, had taken his attractiveness to a whole new level—one I considered dangerous. Dark hair, tanned, smooth skin, defined muscles keeping him strong on the outside while he hid his vulnerability on the inside.
I’d stayed with him far longer than I’d needed to before I realised I needed to walk away. There was only so much time I could spend watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest or the way his lips parted as his breathing grew heavier before everyone declaredmethe psycho of the holiday. Nothing good could come from sitting there, trying to turn him from villain to hero by creating some tragic backstory that didn’t exist. There were no stories for me to create to explain him behaving theway he did, as though his gentle heart had yet to be discovered through no fault of his own.
But, oh, how I’d enjoyed studying the smooth, tanned skin of his shoulders and arms, losing myself in dirty thoughts of what it would be like to run my tongue along every curve and muscle he owned, taking my time to taste every part of him as slowly as I possibly could.
If only I didn’t dislike him so much.
The girls had spent all morning long grilling me on what had happened with Henry the night before, too, with neither one of them believing that I dropped him off at his door, then headed back to my room to read.
Even you’re not that sad, Phoebe,had been the general consensus.
They were right, of course. I just couldn’t tell them what I’d actually been doing once I’d slipped beneath the sheets of my own bed and allowed my hands to drift over my own skin, imagining those hands belonged to someone else.
Finally, though, I got the girls to backoff. I must have been more capable of selling the lie than I’d given myself credit for, but that didn’t mean I liked how it left me feeling, so I convinced them to head to the beach for the day instead of lounging around the pool. Hopefully, once there they’d find other men besides the Henley Boys—a name Bailey had come up with after her date with Andy and finding out that they were from Henley-on-Thames—to keep them company.
“You ready?” I asked Bailey and Rhea at the door of our apartment, my loaded beach bag slung over my shoulder.
“I’ve been ready for an hour,” Rhea grumbled, walking over to me. “Bailey’s story time keeps getting in the way.”
“I can hear you!” Bailey shouted from their shared room.
