Page 43 of Point Blank

He hadn’t worn a condom. The thought of donning a rubber had crossed his mind and vanished as quickly as it had arrived. Call him careless, but this was Serena. She wasn’t some stranger. Feeling each ridge and cushion of her warm cavern had been nirvana. If she gave him the opportunity to do it again, he’d make the same choice. Besides, she hadn’t protested.

“Milo, we need to get to work. We have twenty-six hours left.”

Half his chest lay flat across hers, but the bulk of his weight was pressing into the mattress. He couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. Not when he knew he’d never get into this position again.

Not with her anyway.

“I know we’re past negotiations?—”

“Long past.”

He chuckled. “I’d like to add something to the deal.”

She cocked an eyebrow.

“Five minutes.”

“Oh no you don’t. We said we’d only do this once.”

Fuck, he wanted to kick himself in the ass for agreeing to that. He couldn’t be held liable. In that moment, after that kiss, he’d have said anything.

“Exactly. We’ll never get to lie like this again. Let’s rest like this for a few minutes before we have to be alert for another twenty-six hours.”

Her mouth stretched open on a yawn, and she covered it with the back of her hand. “Fine. Five minutes, but then we really need to get up.”

“First . . .” he said. He was pressing his luck, but he needed to know—before she pushed him away and never got back in his bed again. “What’s the tattoo mean?”

Her features pinched together and the whites of her eyes glittered at him. “Why do you want to know so bad?”

He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the edge of her shoulder, keeping his attention locked on the motion. “Because it’s on you.”

Her diaphragm dipped on a breath. “It’s a song lyric. That’s all.”

“What song?”

She squirmed beneath him. “Milo, we said five minutes of rest. You can’t have that and grill me about my tattoo. Pick one.”

He tapped her collarbone. Something about the tattoo was making her defensive—was it about an ex-boyfriend? Shit. He hadn’t even fucking thought of that. If she had something permanently etched on her body to remind her of another man, he’d hate himself even more for not claiming her a long time ago. Deciding it was better not to know, at least for now, he closed his eyes.

“Fine. Rest.” He toyed with her skin on her shoulder. So smooth. So soft. Touching her was like therapy. All his tension fell away, and the heat from their lovemaking kept their bodies warm.

He cracked his eyes open. Serena’s head tilted toward his, her cheek in full view. One of her hands lay splayed above her head, and soft puffs of breath blew through her nose. She needed rest. Even if only a few minutes . . . an hour tops. She’d slept only four hours in the last forty. He let his eyes close and concentrated on the cadence of her breath.

“Get up!”

A rough shake made his head slump off the pillow at an awkward angle. He groaned and rolled to his stomach as Serena untangled her legs from his.

“Milo. Get. Up.” She enunciated each word. “We slept five hours!”

He jerked up his head and the events of the last several hours hit him with the force of a freight train. He stumbled off the bed and dove for his phone on the end table. Brock had called three times. He’d had the device on vibrate and hadn’t even heard the damn thing.

“Shit.”

Serena whirled on him, her pants now covering her delicious ass and her arms frozen through the straps of her bra. “What?”

“Brock called.”

Serena pressed her hands to her forehead. “Oh my god. He’s downstairs, isn’t he? He knows we had sex.”