Terra
I'm woken by a gentle touch on my shoulder, lips at my ear. "Terra. Gotta go, babe."
I blink and grumble. "Mmmmm?"
Fingers trace hair away from my face, behind my ear. "We have to get moving."
I wriggle and slither to a sitting position, stretching. "Time's it?"
"Just before six."
He's dressed in black military-style pants with cargo pockets, laced-up black combat boots, and a plain black crewneck T-shirt under a bulletproof vest. A handgun is adhered to the front of the vest, with several magazines beside it.
Fuck. Fuck me.
Backward baseball cap. Why, on some men, does that look inspire an immediate lady boner? On some men, it has the opposite effect—on them, it says this is a guy who never outgrew being the cool hot guy in school. Other dudes? Sexy as fuck.
No male, past or present, has ever been hotter in a backward cap than Saxon Cabot.
I clutch the flat sheet to my chest. "I'm up. Now, you need to get away from me. Posthaste."
He smirks. "Why? Not like I haven't inspected every inch of what you got under that sheet."
"Because," I say, my voice prim and arch. "I happen to have a debilitating condition at the moment."
"And that would be?"
"You, and that fucking backward hat. Instant, involuntary lady boner. I'm exactly one-fifth of a heartbeat from jumping you and having my wicked way with you at least seven times. So, if you want to get out of this room and go get this jackass Jarrod—who by the way, I'm extremely fed up with—then you'll vacate the premises so I can get dressed."
He grins. "Instant, involuntary lady boner when I wear a backwards hat? Good to know." He rakes me with his green eyes, and then tips me onto the bed, covers me with his body, and claims my mouth in a scorching kiss, one full of meaning and promise. "You…" a kiss, "are…" another kiss, " so…” and another, “fucking…” one last kiss, “gorgeous."
My stupid eyes water. "Saxon, dammit—damn you. Damn you. You're always making me cry."
His thumbs brush tears away. "Let 'em flow. As long as they're good tears, right?"
He slides off me, off the bed, and onto his feet, where he bends and scoops something off the floor at the foot of the bed: a big black duffel bag.
I sit up and glance at it, then at him. "What's in there?"
"Your clothes—the non-fancy stuff, at least."
I blink, puzzled; upon unzipping the bag, I discover his statement to be true—all of my underwear, all of my bras, all of my leggings, T-shirts, socks, tank tops, camisoles, rompers…any and all clothing that doesn't go on a hanger and isn't, as he put it, fancy.
"I have several questions."
"Apparently our fair host predicted our needs and sent Ambrosia in a helicopter to your place in Boston. She packed up all that stuff, and…" He grabs another bag, like the first. "This."
Shoes. All my shoes.
He shrugs. "Apparently he also hired professional movers to pack up the rest of your stuff—everything—and sent it home, meaning, Club Sin, in Vegas."
