No Perfect Princess (16 page)

Oh.
Oh
. Wait a minute. This wasn’t my bed. The pillow was way too soft. The sheets and blankets were just as decadent as mine but smelled really, really masculine…

“Shit!”

I jolted to my elbows. Had I gone home with the bartender, after all?

Time for inventory
. I wasn’t sore in any interesting places. A quick look under the sheets…okay, wow…I was still wearing every piece of my lingerie.

All of it.

And a T-shirt, too?

“What…the…”

My tongue practically stuck to my teeth then the roof of my mouth. Fuck, I needed some water. I tried swallowing but sand was rough with a gravel chaser.
Thank you, Madame Cristal, for the worst hangover ever.
My head throbbed like a midnight club scene, and my stomach felt like the alley behind it.

Aspirin. Liquid.
Now
.

I sat up carefully, in case my bedmate was a light sleeper. I was a master at the morning-after sneak-out, and the biggest secret to my success were the two
Q
’s: quick and quiet.

A
quick
scan of the room and the night came flooding back.

Michael.

Ohhh, shit; I was at
Michael’s
.

I jerked my head toward the space next to me. Empty—thank God.

This was good. Really good.

Now to
quietly
find my dress and
quickly
get the hell out of here.

I swung out of bed and scanned the bedroom, only to come up empty on finding a stitch of clothing anywhere, his or mine.

This was bad. Really bad.

I could
not
get into the back of my car in a T-shirt and garter belt. Andre and I had shared a lot of interesting things over the years but some lines just shouldn’t be crossed. That dilemma was eclipsed by a second problem. Where the hell was my purse? But both those challenges were the cart before the horse—or in this case, the getaway before the pee stop.

I tiptoed to the master bathroom, relieved myself as noiselessly as possible, and prayed Michael was as huge a control freak about his bathroom fixtures as the rest of his magazine-ready home.
Yesssss
; his uber-modern toilet flushed more quickly and quietly than mine. Impressive—though I had to hold back on delivering five full stars of props, having to leave without the chance to check out his shower and bathtub.

I turned the faucet high enough to generate a trickle in order to wash my hands then strip the last dregs of makeup off my face. At the same time, I borrowed a little blob of his toothpaste, swishing it over my teeth with a finger. I turned to look for a towel—

And wound up pumping a fist in silent victory. On the back of the bathroom door, my dress was hung on a lovely padded hanger, with my purse and shoes lined up on the floor nearby. I smiled, running a hand down the dress, practically feeling the care he’d taken with it through cosmic osmosis. How was it possible that the sweet, caring, and adorable best-guy-friend-alive existed inside the same rippled, tattooed body as the illicit lover who’d turned me totally liquid last night?

The questions would have to remain unanswered. There was a higher mission at hand: getting the hell out of here before Michael discovered me. Enough snippets from last night had started coming back to me, enough that I knew a rehash was
not
in anyone’s best interests right now. My stomach lurched from the remembrance of telling him about Caroline. I’d never told that story to anyone. Claire didn’t even know that one, and she was the closest thing to—well, to anything—that I had.

I needed to get home. Shower. Prep for my day at work—because that was how I rolled when the boss was going to be out for two weeks—then call him from the office sometime this afternoon to hash things out, when the hangover was a dim memory and I had the familiarity of my own turf for strength.

Because dammit, I needed every ounce of strength when it came to talking about anything past holding hands with that man.

I took one more second to dash off a text to Andre, directing him to pick me up a few blocks away from Michael’s house. That, of course, earned me a
yes, ma’am
—punctuated by half a dozen snarky emoticons. I let him have the brazen chain yank, choosing to focus efforts on more important tasks for now. There’d be plenty of time for bitch slapping the man later.

Now…what to do about the—
interesting—
second half of my attire? Panties, garters, and hose weren’t what any self-respecting
hooker
wore in La Jolla, let alone a woman used to greeting Sundays in Roxy and Vans.

Fist bump number two. There was a pair of track pants on the counter. After stashing my thigh highs, I yanked on the pants. Okay, this was good, despite the fact I had to roll the waist over twice and peg the bottoms so I wouldn’t trip. I could make it a few blocks barefoot like this, carrying my dress and shoes.

I peaked out from the bathroom. The bedroom was still empty, the house strangely quiet. Michael’s side of the bed wasn’t disturbed at all. He must have slept on the sofa. Guess I needed to add flawless gentleman to his friendship, sex god, and dress care skills.

Focus, dammit
!

I was going to need the extra effort. The last stage of my escape would be tricky. Heading out the front door wasn’t an option. The path would lead me right past the living room—and the sofa where he’d undoubtedly slept. But this was a classic bungalow. It had to have a back door. And back doors were usually near laundry rooms. So if I just found the washer and dryer…

Back on ballet feet, dress and shoes and purse tucked under my arms, I turned and headed the opposite direction from the living room and kitchen. Morning sun streamed into the hall from a window, casting light into a hall into which I peered and—

Bingo.

At the end of the hall there was a door set with a window pane covered by a sheer curtain. Through that covering, I made out the familiar shapes of a quaint laundry space. Lo and behold, there was a security alarm panel next to the washing equipment, all lights green.
Home free
.

Strangely, the back door was unlocked. Either Michael had forgotten to lock it last night after the party I brought to the door, or he’d already been up and was just keeping his peace, waiting for me to stir. I hoped for the former but took cautions for the latter, turning the knob and slipping out the door like a church mouse—wearing ballet slippers.

Mission accomplished. I hadn’t made so much as a creak.

“Morning, beautiful.”

“Blahhhhhh!!” The scream erupted before I could think—and the blame lay thoroughly on the shoulders of the man who sat there with coffee cup in hand, the breeze in his hair, and sexy scruff on his jaw, soaking up the morning sun like the freaking Greek god he was. “Seriously?” I snapped, frantic that he viewed my devouring stare as nothing more than anger. “Is this your fun morning routine for all your sleepover guests, Pearson? Scaring the crap out of them for a giggle?”

A smile teased his lips. Dammit if that didn’t double the palpitations now rocking my whole chest—
tripled
when he riffed on a Southern drawl, “Well, I do believe in hospitality, ma’am. This boy’s mama raised him right.”

I forced myself not to bolt past him and tear down the street to—which was more like an alley, extending behind a shockingly big backyard—to find Andre. While the size was a stunner, the treatment wasn’t. The area was just as photogenic as the rest of his place, plants mingling with landscaping touches to evoke tamed ruggedness. The inviting feel of it only enforced my resolve to be free of it. I couldn’t allow myself any more threads of attachment to this place—or its owner.

Still,
my
mother had managed to shove a few manners in, too. Michael wasn’t the creepy bartender. He deserved a few words of conversation.

“So…why are you out here?”

He swung a hand out. “Beautiful day. But even on the not-so-beautiful ones, I usually sit out here with my coffee. Good thinking time. I like listening to the birds in the trees. It’s a miniature symphony. Reminds me of home.”

I canted a frown. “Gee. Put that way, birds are positively poetic.”

“Aren’t they?”

No. Comment.
I slid a toe along the patio grout.

“I had an ulterior motive this morning, though,” he went on. “Had a good hunch you would try to sneak away.”

It nudged at accusation. My defenses prickled. “Is that so?” And if I had, why did he care?

“That
is
so. And you know I couldn’t just let you do that.”

And just like that, he blew my barricades apart by having the nerve to finish it off with a cocky wink and a wicked grin—conveniently oblivious to how he tilted the axis of my senses with that one look alone. As dizziness flooded, my stomach roiled harder, alerting me of the possibility I’d be revisiting all that champagne. The three bites of dinner I’d enjoyed gleefully proclaimed they wanted in on the action, too. My whole body fought back, breaking out in a sheen of sweat. I squirmed inside his pants I was wearing, barely fighting off the urge to tear off the T-shirt too.

“I—I have to go, okay? I’m not feeling well.”

“No shit. That’s an impressive shade of green, sugar.”

“I’m…just going to leave…”

“Margaux.
Sit
.”

I went ahead and let him yank me into the chair next to him. Validation? He offered the one thing better than an easy escape. A huge glass of water. Though I greedily gulped the stuff down, it didn’t stop the horizon from teeter-tottering in my vision.

Shit
.

I’d emptied my head—and maybe a little of my heart—to him in embarrassing detail last night. Now, I was going to empty my stomach on his patio. I begged heaven to wake me up from this nightmare—and to make it snappy.

Michael

“T
hanks.”

She rasped it after polishing off her second glass of water. Instead of saying anything, I chose to estimate how much Cristal she’d really put away last night—then decided it was best I didn’t know.

“Okay,” she muttered. “That’s better. I really
do
have to—”

I cut her short by yanking on her hand. Good move, following instinct to keep our fingers linked after I’d pulled her down. It had simply felt natural—and outright amazing when she didn’t fight it.

“Michael—”

“Sshhh. Listen to the birds.”

“Michael—”

“Am I going to have to tie you down?”

She snorted. “You’re not into that shit, remember?”

“I like trying new things.”
And damn, sugar, I’m not opposed to trying
anything
new with you
…

She let go of the water glass to scrape back her hair, closing her eyes and wincing against the sun. I took full advantage of the opportunity to just stare…despite how it aggravated the hugest erection I’d ever had in my life.

She took my breath away.

Sure, there’d been other moments when she’d done the same—but all of them had been shitty preparation for this. Screw the goddess in the red gown from the wedding. And the sassy trendsetter from the months before that. And the attitude-infused businesswoman from the years before
that
. I could barely remember those personas, let alone prefer them to the tousled, tentative woman curled up here now, clutching her clothes…but covered in mine.

Mine.

The word slammed, tempting me to drag her over, right into my lap. Or beat on my chest. Maybe both. I dragged a finger around the rim of my coffee cup, instead, battling not to remember what she hid beneath the T-shirt and sweats.

My T-shirt and sweats.

That corset. Those panties. Those naughty, gorgeous garters…

Fuck.
Closing my eyes only made it worse, joining her in cursing the sun as it blazed through my lids, bringing back the memory like a flame searing through rice paper.

Her dress beneath my fingers, falling away as I slid down the zipper.

The swish of the fabric, flowing down her ivory curves.

The sight of her in that lingerie, stopping my heart and seizing my dick like I’d reverted to fourteen again, searching the internet for whack-off-worthy lingerie ads…that in the stroke of three seconds, she officially put to shame.

Turned out to be the ideal metaphor—since the evening yielded the same results. Not that I’d planned it that way, after she’d detonated every cell of nobility in me
before
the dress came off. Maybe Chad’s exhortation had worn me down a little, too. Maybe I’d simply been too damn tired to fight her beauty—and our chemistry—any longer.

And maybe you gazed into her eyes, stripped of their defenses by the booze, and saw that Neanderthal Michael wasn’t going to scare her in the least. Yeah
?

Ohhhh, yeah…

But then she’d taken down yet another barrier. A secret wall, buried so deep inside her that I’d
never
expected it…

And rocked me to equally deep levels.

Levels that I fantasized about giving her, while escaping into the shower after she passed out. The levels I
would
have given her, if that hadn’t happened. The levels I gave her in my mind as I fisted myself, pumping faster and harder until I exploded in thick, hot streams beneath the spray.

Groaning her name over and over again.

I took a long, hard drag from my coffee. The motion gave me the chance to strategically hide the tent in my sweats. The pair
she
wasn’t wearing.

Holy fuck, my shit looked cute on her. Was she still wearing those panties and garters underneath?

Her soft laugh broke me out of that musing none too soon. “What?” I prompted.

She shook her head as if freeing it from private thoughts of her own. “I was just thinking…”

“Dangerous, huh?”

“No shit.” Such drowsy relaxation. Instantly, I imagined her speaking those words from one of my pillows instead, stretching and arching tighter against me, winding the sheets around us…