Page 24 of Truth and Temptation
“You’re drunk.”
I nod. “Correct. I have consumed a lot of alcohol tonight.” I push past him and into what I now surmise is his room and not mine. That would explain the key card not working. I kick my shoes off and moan at the luxurious feel of the carpet beneath my bare feet.
“This is high quality carpeting.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the carpet. Here, drink this.” Wyatt presses a glass of water into my hand and guides me to sit down on a chair. I watch as he seats himself on the bed across from me. I squint to make sure I am not seeing things, but no, he is truly shirtless. All of his glorious muscles, and what I can assume is a highly intricate tattoo, are on display. But they — he — is too far away for me to touch.
I want to touch him.
I want him to touch me.
I want him to give me my first orgasm.
It’s only when he lets out a strangled noise that I realize I am speaking out loud and not merely making observations in my head.
“Paige, I’m not going to lay a finger on you tonight. You’re drunk, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
I think he’s shaking his head, but the truth is, my vision is so blurred, it is as if I’m not wearing my glasses at all. Experimentally, I take them off, then put them back on. No difference. Interesting.
“Perhaps my inebriation is making me bold enough to tell you my desires. What if tomorrow my courage goes away? Will you still act on my request? I would like to learn what it is about orgasms that has my female friends so infatuated with them. My experiences thus far have been lackluster, to say the least.”
“Holy shit,” he groans, dropping his head down to his hands. I wish to feel his hair between my fingers, so I attempt to unsteadily make my way over to him. As soon as I’m within reach, his hands come to rest on my hips and his head tilts up to look at me. “Paige,” he murmurs, and I place a finger on his lips.
“I touched you first. It’s fine.” I let my hands drag through his hair, enjoying the low moan of pleasure that brings from him. To his credit, he stays frozen, his hands doing nothing more than stabilizing me with his firm grip on my hips. My fingers travel down to his shoulders and around to his chest, where I trace the outline of what I’ve deduced are wings. “I have long admired tattoos. I realize that may go against what many think of me and my character, but I admire the art form. The permanency of decorating your skin with something important.”
His hands cover mine and lift them off his chest to hang by my side. “You shouldn’t let other people’s opinions or expectations stop you from doing whatever you want.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
The temperature in the room seems quite high. Or perhaps it is just me. Looking somewhat blindly over my shoulder, I manage to find the glass of water and bring it to my lips to drink, only to have it partially spill down my front.
“Okay, come on tipsy, let’s get you back to your room.” I watch as Wyatt opens a door that I realize must connect our two rooms, then he wraps an arm around my waist and leads me out into the hall. When we’re in front of my door, he holds out his hand, and I obediently hand him my key card. He opens my door, deposits me on my bed, then goes and unlocks the connecting door on my side.
“That’s just in case you need anything in the night, okay? You’ve had a hell of a lot to drink, and I want to be able to check on you. That’s all.”
I nod. Suddenly the alcohol is catching up to me and I want nothing more than to climb into the bed and sleep. Standing up, I lift my sweater over my head and drop it to the floor. My hands go to the button on my pants before I realize Wyatt is still here. Our eyes meet after his lift from my chest, covered only by my bra.
“So, I’ll see you in the morning,” he says hoarsely.
“Yes,” I reply.
We stand there, eyes fixed on one another for a moment more before he pivots and walks into his room, gently pulling his door mostly closed.
I finish undressing, collapse onto the bed, and immediately fall asleep.
Chapter eleven
Wyatt
Did I sleep last night? No.
Did I get up twice to make sure Paige wasn’t sick? Yes.
Did I spend way too long watching her sleep, smiling at her cute little snore? Also, yes.
Did her words run through my head on constant repeat, like a digital billboard in Times Square? Fuck. Yes.
