Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,44

help of Bailey’s steady snoring and the sounds of the wilderness playing out like a live sleep track around me, it all starts to fade away and sleep is so close I can taste it.

Thank fuck.

I’m mere breaths away from going lights-out when the sound of footsteps outside my tent yanks me back to the present and makes me jerk violently to sitting.

Senses heightened and eyes wide open, I blink several times and force my vision to adjust to the darkness.

Bailey lies contentedly in the corner of the tent, the soft woof of his dreams the only sign of life. Apparently, the instant his head hit his fleece blanket, he clocked out of his duties as a trusty watchdog. Sleepy bastard.

The hint of a shadow stands outside the entrance of my tent, hands bumbling around the material, tapping and feeling near the zippered entrance door. Barring a yeti or a real-life, miniature version of Bigfoot, there’s only one person it can be.

In three abrupt motions, the zipper is pulled up, and a rush of cold air fills the tent.

Two seconds later, Billie steps inside.

“What’s going on?” I ask as she zips the tent back up behind her, clearly planning to stay. “Are you all right?”

“I’m so freaking cold,” she whispers as she turns to face me. “I can’t take it anymore.”

I open my mouth to respond, but she doesn’t give me a chance. She’s a desperate woman on an unfailable mission as she crawls up from the bottom of my sleeping bag, slithers in next to me, and shoves her body down into the bag alongside me without asking for permission.

“Billie, what the hell are you doing?” I ask again, but she ignores me completely and presses her cold little body against mine. At the shock of the frigidity, my anger cools considerably.

God. She really is freezing.

I wrap my arms around her without much thought and rub my hands up and down her arms. Her teeth chatter, and ice-cold fingers grip my wrists and force my arms to wrap around her tighter, pulling us even closer together.

It’s only when she finally settles, the heat from my body penetrating the impossibly cold layer of hers that I realize exactly what I’m feeling.

Billie is inside my sleeping bag; her body is pressed against mine with the soft hints of her flowery perfume filling my nose in thick, delicious waves.

Thank God, these cold Alaskan nights have forced us both to go to bed still bundled up in clothes, but fuck, I can still feel enough of her beneath her fleece pants and sweater to make my goddamn head spin.

My dick starts to enjoy it a little too much, and my mind reels with a scrolling flurry of dirty thoughts.

My big hands touching more than just her waist. My lips brushing against her neck. My ears listening for her soft moans as I explore her perky breasts and stomach and thighs with my tongue. Her pussy bared and wet and ready for my mouth. My fingers pulling her panties to the side so I can press the tip of my cock at her entrance…

Ah fuck. Stop, stop. Stop.

My dick is a fucking traitor, but it’s hardly the first. Betraying, philandering cocks are pretty much the main dilemma of all men since the beginning of time.

Our dicks aren’t our friends. Hell, sixteen-year-old dicks are basically fucking terrorists, ready to shoot any pretty girl within a one-hundred-mile radius. And right now, my thirty-four-year-old dick has his sights set on beautiful Billie and her perfect little curves and warm little body.

Instantly, I shut my eyes tight, and with my free hand, I press my fingers against my forehead and try like hell to force the very bad ideas out of my mind.

Billie’s teeth stop chattering, and a few more satisfied little breaths escape her lungs as she wiggles her hips and settles against me.

God, those hips. Those curvy little hips.

And her perfect little ass. It is right there. Against me.

Fuck.

A soft sigh of contentment escapes her lungs, and it’s more than apparent she gives zero fucks about personal boundaries or the fact that our close proximity is wreaking havoc on my fucking head when she’s this close to hypothermia.

“Billie, are you serious right now?” I ask because I have to. For the sake of my mental health, I have to be an asshole right now. Subconsciously, she wiggles her fucking hips again.

“Serious about what?” she asks, her voice already lazy with sleep and the warmth she so