it was not, but I had gotten very used to hand washing my intimates in sinks over the years when I found myself without spare pairs to wear.
Finally, freshly cleaned, wrapped in the towel as a makeshift night dress, I climbed into bed, figuring I would stare at the ceiling until it got darker out, but passing out almost immediately.
—
I woke up disoriented, which wasn't an altogether new sensation for me. When you lived most of your life on the road, you got used to waking up in strange places, having that moment of panic and uncertainty until your brain let all the pieces fall back together again.
They trickled back.
The yacht.
Bellamy and Fenway, who were both going to hear it from me in the near future.
Christopher Adamos.
His brother, Alexander.
The job.
The money.
The house.
Which was where I was, settled in the guest room.
One look out the window said it was still dark, but with a lack of any electronics in the room, and my missing phone, it was impossible to tell if it was in the middle of the night, or simply the very pre-dawn hours.
All I did know was I was dying of thirst.
Climbing out of bed, I gave my legs a pep talk—promising them that I would never put them through step torture ever again—readjusted my robe so nothing was hanging out, and made my way out into the hall, stepping quietly through the silent house.
I grabbed a bottle of orange juice out of the fridge, then made my way to the sitting room in the new edition, reaching for the television remote, hoping for something to tell me exactly what time it was; if I should be going back to sleep or getting ready for the day.
I had just curled up on the couch when there was a slam that made my heart skitter, followed by steadily approaching footsteps.
I would have been mentally prepared for a guard. For an intruder. For freaking Atanas Chernev wielding a machine gun.
But I was not prepared for this.
For a shirtless Christopher Adamos striding into the sitting room in a pair of low-slung—dangerously low-slung—shorts, sweat glistening over his chest and abdominal muscles.
It was, well, it was a lot.
Too much, really.
For my overworked, undersexed system.
My skin heated, a flush working its way across my chest, up my neck, then blooming over my cheeks.
And I became very, very aware of the fact that I was not wearing panties.
"Miss Miller," he said, surprised, pulling to a stop, brows furrowing. "I was under the impression you were a late riser."
"I have no idea what time it is," I admitted, trying not to watch a bead of sweat slide between his pecs, down his stomach, slipping under the waistband of his pants. Clearly, I was not trying hard enough.
"It's a quarter after four."
"In the morning?" I hissed, mouth falling open, eyes scrunching up. "Why?"
"Why is it four in the morning?" he asked.
"Why have you already been out and exercising at four in the morning?" I clarified.
"It's easier when everyone is still asleep. And cooler," he added.
"Tell me you run the steps," I said, shaking my head.
"I run the steps," he agreed, shrugging.
"My legs were shaking when I tried to lower myself down onto the couch," I admitted, realizing that doing so drew his attention down my body where the flap of the robe had slipped open, revealing more than a small sliver of thigh. In fact, he was dangerously closed to figuring out my pantyless secret too.
"They adapt," he assured me, taking a deep breath, making that glorious chest of his expand wide as his gaze moved away.
"I don't think my thighs work that way," I told him.
"I'm sure they work just fine," he told me, voice a little rough, conjuring up images of them working just fine as they wrapped around his hips as he slid inside me.
Oh, crap.
Nope.
That was not a good place for my mind to be heading.
My legs pressed together tightly, trying to ignore the growing desire building between.
"They prefer lounging in bed until ten in the morning," I told him, voice sounding as tight as my chest did.
"Feel free," he invited, waving a hand down the hall.
"If you don't mind, I think I'd rather put something on TV and pretend I understand what is going on."
It hadn't escaped my notice that it was lucky that Christopher and Cora spoke English.
"You should be able to find something in English on Netflix," he offered. "I need to shower."
With that, he was gone.
Did I watch him walk