Hate the Player - Max Monroe Page 0,89

still asleep beside me, her naked form peeking out from beneath the sheets.

The clock has barely struck five in the morning, and the sun is still resting well below the horizon. We need to be back on set by seven, and I should probably make my way down to the hotel gym, fit in a quick workout, and then head back to my room for a shower, but I’m enjoying this view far too much.

I gaze upon her naked form, taking in every inch of visible skin that’s resting above the sheets. One long leg, the curve of her hip, her slender arm, and her breasts that rise and fall with each soft, steady breath. My eyes are drawn to the golden river that gently caresses its way down her back and fans out across her pillow.

The first moment I met Birdie, she outright loathed me. My normally charming ways nothing more than a deterrent for her. Which only made me want to step up to the challenge that was her.

And I’ve spent the past several weeks savoring the thrill of the chase. But that chase has moved in mysterious ways, ways I couldn’t have ever predicted.

Last night, all my Birdie Harris fantasies came to fruition, and truthfully, I’m almost disappointed how lackluster they were compared to the real thing.

This woman is a goddess.

A playful mix of teasing and seductive. Once she lets go, once she’s in the moment and chasing her pleasure, she is a force to be reckoned with.

I smirk to myself. Yeah, I knew she’d be wild.

You can’t have that much attitude and sass stuffed into a pint-sized frame and not be capable of hot, addictive, wild sex.

And truth be told, I’m not even close to being finished with her yet.

When she begins to stir in her sleep and her eyes blink open, I brace myself for the unknown.

Is she going to freak out?

Is she going to be pissed?

Will Birdie turn angry over the fact that we engaged in some of the hottest sex I’ve ever experienced in my life?

For the briefest of seconds, I hold my breath, silently hoping she’ll simply wake up reenergized and ready to sneak in another quick round of delicious sex before we have to leave for set.

When sleepy brown eyes find their way to mine, a soft groan slips from her lungs.

“What time is it?”

“A little after five.”

She groans again. “It’s so early.”

“Yeah.” I grin down at her and reach out to slide a piece of her blond hair from her cheek. “But we need to be back on set in less than two hours.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Which means we probably could’ve slept another hour, Andy.”

Andy. Fucking hell. I’m finding when she’s grumpy or pissed at me or just wants to bust my balls a bit, Andy is her nickname of choice.

“Do you always get up this early on shooting days?” she asks, and a yawn escapes her lips.

“It’s the only way I can fit in a workout.”

Her nose crinkles up, and her pretty face turns outright cranky. “That’s horrible. You need to stop torturing yourself like that.”

I laugh at that and turn onto my back to look up at the ceiling.

“So…” Her voice is still soft and sleepy but loud enough in the quiet of her hotel bedroom to snag my attention. “We had sex last night.”

I glance over at her. “We sure did, sweetheart.”

Silence spreads between us, and I search her eyes, trying to figure out what she’s thinking and feeling. Trying to determine if she regrets last night.

“You know,” she whispers, and I tilt my head to the side, surprised by the otherwise neutral tone of her voice. “It had been a while for me,” she updates on something I’ve already heard before.

“Over a year,” I confirm, and her eyes narrow in confusion.

“How…?”

“You might’ve mentioned it when you were on your cosmic brownie trip.”

“Jesus,” she mutters, stares up at the ceiling, and a sigh escapes her lips. “I had a feeling I said all kinds of crazy shit to you that night.” Birdie sits up on the bed, the sheets falling gloriously off her breasts and firm belly, and redirects her gaze to mine. “What else did I say that night?”

“Sweetheart, a gentleman never kisses and tells.”

“What?” Her eyes go wide, and she slaps a palm down on my chest. “I freaking kissed you that night?”

“Ow, shit,” I mutter through a laugh. “What is it with you and slapping me?”

“A lady never slaps and tells.”

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