Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(52)

Now was not the time for a repeat performance of the other night, but when she was sober, hell. He was all over her.

“Because,” she whispered, her eyes heavy.

Leaning down, he got close enough to her mouth to kiss her, but didn’t. “That’s not a reason, Ace.”

She kissed him instead, moved her mouth on his in a series of soft, warm kisses he returned while drawing her closer and clutching her harder. He slanted her jaw and deepened their connection. She took it. He pressed his body against her curves, the liquor on her tongue tasting sweet, tangy from the cherry—

Wake up, man.

Hands on her hips, he pushed her back and tore his mouth from hers before he could talk himself out of it. They were not on the same page.

She slid her hands to his jeans, specifically, to the stud of his jeans, and had it undone and the zipper halfway down before he once again forced his body into action and took a step away from her.

“Oh, no you don’t, gorgeous.” If he didn’t say it now, there’d be no saying it.

Promptly, he turned her around, pointed her to the stairs, and walked behind her as he angled her to the bedroom. Charlie, drunk and loose and accommodating, was incredibly tempting. In spite of her mouth saying things her body instantly contradicted. Or maybe not in spite of it, but because of it.

He wanted her. She was dead wrong in her assumption earlier. That studio thing? Definitely happening again. But he wanted her present, aware—not feeling displaced guilt over a decision she made while simmering in Mad Cow Tinis.

Without letting her try to de-pants him again, and with his pants partially open to accommodate the growing erection she was responsible for, he wrangled her to the bathroom where he gave her a fresh toothbrush. While she brushed, he fluffed the pillows—snagging one for himself for the couch downstairs—turned down the white comforter, and put a glass of water on the nightstand. Then he tucked her into his bed and went to his studio to paint and pace off his sexual frustration.

Or, as it turned out, a bit of both. Simultaneously.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN




Tequila was the devil’s drink.

Since waking up in Evan’s bed, the sun peeking through a crack in the floor-length dark gray curtains, Charlie had downed a glass of water, refilled and drank another, then brushed her teeth.

And she still felt as if she had a mouth full of sand.

Bleh.

Head pounding, she crawled back under his fluffy, white comforter, hoping her throbbing head and dry mouth might distract her from how amazing his sheets smelled.

But no. The part of her brain logging every detail about the man she was harboring lusty thoughts for didn’t miss the chance to soak in the fresh ocean air scent of either his fabric softener—did he use that stuff?—or his cologne, or a mix of the two.

Her brain also didn’t give her a reprieve from remembering, with agonizing clarity, the way she’d attempted to seduce him last night. Drunk as a skunk, she could only imagine what a hot mess she must’ve looked. This morning, she’d refilled her water glass and found her eyes caked with yesterday’s mascara. Then found it on the pillowcase. The white pillowcase.

With a groan, she pulled the other pillow over her ratty hair and wondered if she could sleep until, say, Lyon went to college. By then she might live down the embarrassment wrought by throwing herself at Evan Downey while slurring, stumbling, and slovenly drunk.

Ugh.

“Aspirin, Ace.”

The muffled voice in the room grew more muffled as she crammed the pillow over her head. Suffocation. That was a good idea.

Her host thwarted her plan, tugging the pillow off her face and dropping it to the other side of the bed.

“You’ve been awake for a while,” he stated.

The scent of coffee curled into her nostrils, luring her out from behind her hair. She swept the length of it off her face and leaned on one elbow.

Evan sat beside her. “Hey, beautiful.”

She replied with an inelegant grunt of disbelief.

“Aspirin.” He held up his fingers, between which were two small tablets that she swallowed with a gulp of water. Then she sat up and lifted the coffee mug to her lips. It was red with white block lettering that read: CARPE BEANAM: SEIZE THE COFFEE.

The brew was hot, and delicious, and had so much milk, it was almost more cream than coffee. Just the way she liked it. That he remembered made her heart tug. She gave herself a mental poke. After last night, he’d probably check her into Betty Ford.

“Hangover Hash.”

She blinked at him, coffee mug held to her lips. “Hangover Hash?”

“Yep. My specialty,” he answered with a small smile.

Oh, he looked good today. His hair was wet on the ends, from his shower, she figured. The lake was way too cold in the morning for a swim. His T-shirt was tight and white, made to look old, but was new, with faded gray lettering in a banner reading: AXLE’S: FEAR NO ROAD. The banner looped stylishly around a faded gray drawing of what she guessed was a Harley Davidson. And she further guessed, since his brother had recently purchased several motorcycle shops in Osborn, Ohio, and because she knew Evan didn’t ride, this shirt was from Aiden’s shop.

“I have another hangover specialty if you’re interested, Ace.”

The sultry heat in his words disrupted her thoughts. She dragged her attention from the shirt molded to his body to find a pair of turquoise eyes dancing in the light eking through the closed curtains.