Elsa
I wake up to someone pounding loudly on...what, a wall? A door?
Ugh, no. It’s coming from inside my head. That pounding is the unmistakable throbbing of too much tequila.
I pull my silk duvet cover-up to burrow under my bed a little longer before facing the world. Only this isn’t my duvet cover, or my bed, or my bedroom.
Wherever I am, it’s luxurious. The bed that forms around my body, the crystal lamp on the mirrored nightstand. The room is certainly professionally decorated.
And then it hits me. I’ve been here before. Many times actually.
I’m in Tanner’s bed. I hate the idea of moving one inch of my aching body, but I turn enough to confirm my suspicions: I’m completely naked.
Without even seeing a mirror, I know my hair is not in its normally perfectly coiffed state. Nope, I look—I feel—like shit.
The first priority, however, is finding my clothes. I start scanning the room for clothing and maybe some clues as to what transpired after we left the rooftop.
And that’s when I see black fabric crumpled on the floor between the bed and the couch. One stiletto is lying near the dress, the other is MIA. Glancing up as the room spins, I see my red panties from my upcoming spring line, spinning around the room, hooked on one of the ceiling fan blades.
Hopefully, those undies are the only thing that went for a ride last night.
I’m still doing an inventory of my belongings when I feel Tanner come into the room. Moments before he appears in the doorway, looking as sexy as always, I pull his high-thread-count sheets up around my neck and stare at his muscled chest and washboard abs.
His hair is perfectly tousled, his eyes sparkling. This Adonis of a man looks rested. I feel like I look like roadkill, and he looks good enough to fuck.
For all I can remember, we did just that last night.
Tanner enters the room carrying a tray filled with life-giving coffee. He sets the tray down on the bed in front of me. It smells so fucking good.
My eyes linger on his chest where a trail of hair leads right to his crotch. The boxer shorts he’s sporting are just thin enough that I can see a bulge.
The thought that we did, in fact, fuck last night isn’t a bad one. The fact that I can’t remember every delicious detail is, however.
He gently sits on the edge of the bed beside the coffee tray, staring intently at me with his steely eyes and a mischievous grin. He’s looking pretty proud of himself, so I decide it’s now or never.
“So, did we fuck last night?” I say as I meet his intense gaze, eye-to-eye.
“Good morning to you, too, angel,” he responds with plenty of amusement in his voice.
Instead of giving me an answer—things are never straight-forward with Tanner—he occupies himself with pouring two cups of coffee.
“My head is throbbing too much for your Prince Charming routine,” I groan. “Just answer the fucking question.”
“No, we did not have sex last night,” he says as he hands me my coffee.
I spot a folded newspaper on the tray. He doesn’t skip a beat, does he?
I take a sip—it’s exactly how I like it. How did he remember?
“I prefer a woman to be conscious during sex,” he says. “Call me old-fashioned.”
Good, I think. One thing about Tanner Sharpe, you want to remember fucking him. And I’d like to think that no matter how much tequila I consume, I’d remember tearing up the bed sheets with him.
That leaves one other question, though.
“Shit, how drunk was I?”
He chuckles and says, “Drunk enough to do a sexy little strip tease for me,” pointing over to my bra hanging over a picture frame on the opposite side of the room, “before passing out on my side of the bed.”