“Morning,” he said. He took in my attire—towel, wet skin and slightly dazed expression—and smiled. “A very good morning.”
Fuck off with the judgments. I couldn’t help the spurt of pleasure at seeing him, the heat in my crotch or my increased pulse rate. I also couldn’t stop myself from stupidly saying, “What are you doing here?”
“I felt bad about how the evening ended. So I brought amends.” And apparently, he didn’t mean the coffee or treat in the bag.
Only once his lips pressed against mine did it occur to me to protest. Occurred but didn’t happen as he once again melted my resistance, wiped away my reasoning and made me re-evaluate my decision to give him the brush off. When he let me up for air, only because he had to set his offerings down so he could make a proper grab for me, did I dart out of reach with a squeaked, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Why?” He opened his mouth to say more, then stopped. I think he sniffed, hard to tell because he’d partially turned away from me to face the bedroom. His entire body went rigid, and damn it all, if I didn’t know he’d guessed who spent the night. Forget hand caught in the cookie jar embarrassment, it didn’t compare to pussy caught on another dick one. I blushed beet red when he faced me to say, “I see you didn’t spend the night alone.”
“I—um—that is.” Hold on one second. Why was I embarrassed or even thinking of apologizing? I’d made no promises to this guy. Hell, we weren’t even dating. We’d fucked once. He’d invited himself to dinner. He showed up with Starbucks—my favorite. But those things didn’t mean he owned me. Didn’t make us exclusive. We were nothing to each other. Nothing except extremely compatible in the bedroom.
“Pete spent the night.” There. I’d said it. Take it or leave it. I refused to hide or pretend. Nor did I feel the need to excuse myself. Much. I waited for a jealous outburst and readied myself to blast him with curse words not heard often outside a biker bar. I prepared for him to stalk off, slamming my door in its frame. I even braced myself for possible tears. Not likely given Anthony’s usually dominant attitude, but hey, you never knew. Sometimes the toughest guys ended up the biggest crybabies. He did none of those things. Nope. The bastard went with option D. Drew me back into his arms, and kissed me. Didn’t speak a word. Just kissed me and groped me and next thing I knew the towel hit the floor, his hand slid between my thighs and I rode his fingers on my way to nirvana.
“Gawd. Gawd.” I moaned as he hissed, “That’s it, come for me.” In the midst of a moan, we gained an audience, shattering my almost there orgasm.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I think we’re going to be late for brunch if we don’t get a move on.” Pete’s tight clipped tone threw an effective cold bucket of reality over my actions.
Mortified, I stepped away from Anthony who wore a smug smile, my throbbing pussy not willing to release his still flexing fingers. Red from head to toe, because really, what woman wanted to get found being finger fucked by the guy she’d literally just fucked—oh damn it all, this was getting too damned complicated. Off I stalked, and I mean stomped to my room, muttering under my breath about men with no boundaries and changing locks. Probably not the brightest idea leaving Anthony in a room with a jealous and angry werewolf, but in my ire, I’d gone past the point of caring right into the I-hope-they-kill-each-other zone.