Then, the thought,Oh, fuckcrashed into my consciousness.
Last night had been... well, calling it immense seemed inadequate. It had been expected in the way that watching someone play with fire expects eventual burning, but also completely unimaginable in terms of actual execution.
In the heat of passion (and yes, I was well aware I sounded like a 1970s romance novel), I’d pushed aside all my doubts aboutEliza’s intentions and just focused on the moment. On the all-consuming pleasure she’d given me.
Now though, those doubts had formed an orderly British queue at the edge of my brain, each one politely waiting its turn to explain exactly how sleeping with Eliza was an error.
Actually, scrap that: the sleeping had been fairly minimal. What we’d done was have sex. Repeatedly. Enthusiastically. In positions that probably violated several health and safety regulations.
I put both hands over my face and tried to steady my breathing, which was becoming slightly erratic as memories from the night before decided to replay themselves in vivid Technicolor.
This was going to be fine. We were both adults. We could absolutely work together after this. It would not be awkward. Maybe if I repeated that enough times, I might eventually believe it.
I stared at Eliza’s sleeping face, and my fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and smooth that wayward strand of hair away from her cheek. The want was so strong it was almost physical.
Get a bloody grip!
Even if we managed to navigate this passion bomb that had exploded between us without completely destroying our professional partnership, I couldn’t go around stroking her face like some lovesick teenager.
I had to work with Eliza. I had to forget how absolutely incredible she was in bed. Forget the way she’d made me come so hard I nearly pulled a muscle. I had to focus on maintaining some semblance of professionalism. Which was going to be challenging considering my entire body felt like it had been thoroughly and expertly ravaged. I’d forgotten it was possible to have that many orgasms in one night. It had been a while since anyone had wrung that kind of response from me. Nice to know I was still capable.
But waking here, tangled in sheets that smelled like sex and her, I needed air. I needed coffee. I needed to think.
I checked my watch: 7:30. The coffee stand in the courtyard had been advertising breakfast from early morning. Worth a try.
I slipped out of bed, trying to be quiet, then spent an undignified few minutes hopping around trying to get my jeans on without falling arse-first onto the floor. Every movement reminded me of how Eliza had taken those same jeans off me the night before, peeling them away with a surefire confidence that made me putty in her hands.
The memory sent a fresh wave of desire straight through me, which was not helpful given my current mission to pretend last night had been a momentary lapse in judgment rather than the best sex I’d had in years.
I pulled on my red sweatshirt, grabbed my trainers, and headed for the door.
“Morning!” chirped a woman from the neighbouring tent who I vaguely remembered meeting last night. Her tent, while separate from ours, wasn’t a million miles away.
“Morning,” I managed, heat flooding my cheeks as I shoved my hands deep into my pockets —how much had she heard?— and made a beeline for the copse of trees.
The courtyard was blissfully quiet compared to the previous night’s chaos. In fact, there was only one other person visible as I approached the coffee truck, chatting to the barista.
“Morning, Roka,” I said, attempting to sound casual as I approached.
She jumped, letting out a shriek that probably woke half the festival.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” She clutched her chest. “Don’t sneak up on me before I’ve had caffeine.”
“Sorry. I didn’t think I was being particularly stealthy.”
“What are you having?” she asked.
This early in the morning, I was impressed her hair still looked show-ready. Maybe she had so much product on it, she woke up like that.
“Long black for me, flat white for Eliza.” Saying her name aloud made me blush again, probably because Roka had practically predicted last night before we’d even admitted it to ourselves.
“Same as me.” A definite flush crept up her neck.
“Went well with Sasha, then?”
This time the blush was unmistakable. “It did. I’ve been wanting it to for ages, but the timing was always shit, me being in the studio, then touring, then more studio. Sasha’s industry isn’t nine-to-five either, so she gets it, but still. Anyway, I sent her a ticket and she came. I figured everyone likes a romantic gesture, right?”
I nodded. “Can’t think of many people who don’t.”
