I follow his hand around and spot an iPad and laptop on the coffee table, which definitely don’t belong to me. I know I left my suitcase in the doorway, where concierge had left it. I decided to get wasted instead of unpacking. I lean back and look at the front door. Empty.
I got wasted, had to be carried back to my villa, which I’d locked myself out of, and ended up sleeping in his.
Which was actually really decent of him.
I wince. “So, when you say, carried me …”
“You just jumped up on me. Didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Oh.” I wince again. “I’m so sorry. I can be … a bit overfriendly when I’m drunk.”
He chuckles, and the sound is really nice. “Figured that when you were telling me how hot you thought I was.”
No.
Please.
No.
Kill me now.
My whole body is on fire. Pretty sure I’m the color of a tomato.
Why, God, why?! Haven’t I suffered enough?!
Not that having a gorgeous man carry me and put me to bed is suffering, but knowing that I was drunk as a skunk and saying the most embarrassing things to him is beyond suffering. And he’s staying in the villa across from mine, and we’re on a tiny island, meaning I will most definitely have to face him again.
Not that I can get any lower than I am.
Fuuuuck.
I swallow past the rocks of embarrassment in my throat. I’m such an overconfident fucking twat when I’m drunk. “Uh … can I ask … did you and I … well, did we have sex?”
He presses the button on the coffee machine and turns to face me. He leans back against the table and folds his arms across that magnificent chest of his. “Call me old-fashioned, but I like a woman to be sober and conscious when I fuck her.”
The way he says fuck in that sexy American accent sends shivers all the way down to my toes.
“Okay, well, that’s good then.” It is because, damn, I would have hated to forget having sex with him. “So, I’ll just get my clothes and be out of your way. Thanks for taking care of me.”
“No problem at all.”
“Um, you don’t happen to know where my clothes are?” I ask, looking around for them.
“Should be down near the side of the bed. That’s where you threw them when you stripped.” He points to the side of the bed I’m not at.
And the hits just keep coming.
I stripped my clothes off? I figured I’d just undressed for bed. But stripped off? For fuck’s sake, Dillon.
Cringing, I ask, “Please tell me that I didn’t do an actual striptease for you.”
He turns back to me, coffee in his hand now, brow raised. “You do that when you’re drunk? Damn, if I’d known, I’d have put in a request.”
His lips lift at the corner. It’s sexy as hell. Well, all of him is.
“Not usually. But I wouldn’t put anything past drunk me.”
“Noted,” he says, a twinkle in his eye before he takes a sip of his coffee.
“Right, well, I’ll just grab my clothes then …” I skirt around the bed, and because I don’t want to have to walk past him, I go the long way around, meaning I have to walk around the dividing wall that the head of the bed is pushed up against. Grabbing my clothes and shoes, I all but run into the bathroom.
Locking the door, I drop my forehead against it.
Great.
Just bloody great.
First night here, and I make a total knob of myself.
I embarrassed myself in front of West, told him how hot I thought he was, made him carry me back, stripped my clothes off, and took over his bed.
I suppose it can’t get any worse than this.
Unless I made a total arse of myself in front of others in the bar as well. I should ask him, but I don’t know if I want to know the answer.
Then, a thought hits me. Is he here alone? I mean, everyone on this island is here with a significant other. I should have been.
I mean, from the fact that I spent the night in his villa, in his bed, I’m taking it that he doesn’t have a wife or girlfriend here with him.
Maybe he’s here with friends.
But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have someone back home.
Although, when I asked him if we had sex, he said, “Call me old-fashioned, but I like a woman to be sober and conscious when