and not particularly caring. Rory had stamina and then some.
“How old are you anyway?”
“Twenty-seven,” he said, his slow, sexy smile hedonistic. “I’m legal, so do your worst.”
Twenty-seven. Thirty-seven. She didn’t have to do the math. Ten years. A freaking decade. For tonight, it didn’t matter. Boy toy indeed.
“Do you know how old I am?”
He squinted slightly, studying her. “Early thirties? Is it important?”
Either the guy was seriously charming or seriously drunk or in need of a serious eye checkup. Whatever, she realized he was right. It wasn’t important. Thirty-seven was a number. She didn’t feel her age, and it wasn’t like she was applying for a marriage license. Never again.
“I guess not,” she said, gasping as his thumb grazed her nipple deliberately.
Around and around in slow, languorous circles, sending heat streaking through her body and pooling between her legs.
This was crazy. Totally, over-the-top cray-cray. She’d never been so easily turned on before and could count her number of one-night stands on one hand, drunk or otherwise. After Avi and before Hamlyn, she’d dated infrequently, guys who were staid and sensible, like her. Guys older than athletic, eager-to-please, quick-recovering Rory, guys who didn’t give her half the buzz.
Emboldened by how much he wanted her, she tugged the sheet lower, revealing exactly why that decade between them made all the difference. He was ready to go, again.
“You sure you’re up for my worst?”
His lips curved in a smug smile before he dropped the lightest of kisses on her mouth.
“I’m up for anything.”
She didn’t second-guess her response as mind-numbing lust pulsed through her.
“Show me.”
* * *
* * *
Later, she breathed out a sigh, her eyes closing with what felt like twenty-ton weights on the lids as she slid off him like a limp rag doll and crashed onto the pillow.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered into the comfortable silence, and she struggled to open her eyes.
The ease between them surprised her. She thought she’d feel tacky, ashamed, or an awkward combination of the two, hooking up with a stranger on her first night back home. Instead, lying next to Rory after they’d explored each other’s bodies intimately felt strangely comfortable.
Words weren’t needed. They seemed to fit. Corny? Maybe. But she wasn’t going to question it. Maybe she should get drunk and let cute guys rescue her from jerks more often.
“Sweet-talker.” She opened her eyes with difficulty and rolled toward him, unable to control the thump of her heart as she saw moonlight bathing his bare chest in incandescent shadows, caressing the hard planes, accentuating his beauty.
He was gorgeous, breathtakingly so, and for the tiniest, infinitesimal second, she fantasized what it would be like to have this sort of perfection beyond a night. She reached out and laid her hand on his chest, feeling the strong, rhythmic pounding of his heart beneath her palm, enjoying the closeness she hadn’t anticipated when she’d initially lost her head and brought him to her apartment.
“You can stay if you like?”
She hoped she didn’t sound needy, but the thought of a rousing bout of morning-after sex before they parted ways seemed like a good idea.
He smiled and placed his hand over hers, an intimate gesture that went beyond anything they’d shared in the throes of passion.
“You’ve worn me out, so I better stay.”
She quirked an eyebrow and glanced at his impressive package, still semi-erect. “Doesn’t look like you’re worn-out to me.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“I don’t hear you complaining.”
He laughed at her boldness, and she slid her hand out from under his, skating her palm across the expanse of lovely bronzed skin across his chest and lower. Caressing the ridges of abs, savoring the definition.
“I’m not usually like this,” she said, toying with the sheet covering his bottom half. “It’s probably jet lag.”
“In that case, every time you fly across the international date line, you better look me up.” He winked and swooped in for a kiss. “Promise?”
Samira wasn’t in the habit of making promises she couldn’t keep, especially to a guy she wouldn’t see after tonight no matter how much they surprisingly connected.
So she settled for yanking the sheet away and covering his mouth with hers in a slow, sensual kiss as her hand slid lower . . .
Five
To keep his body in peak physical condition, Rory rarely drank. So the fact he’d consumed six whiskey shots on an empty stomach last night ensured he had one mother of a headache as he let himself into his place.
Considering those shots had provided the impetus in saving Samira from that hipster creep, and