But I don’t want to waste it. She’s out there. Sleeping in the bed we have no choice but to share. Why should I beat off when I could wake her up with soft, sweet kisses and whisper I’m sorry in her ear? Slip my hands beneath that thick robe and hope like hell I encounter bare, soft skin. Because I bet she is soft and bare beneath that robe.

And I’m suddenly eager to find out if it’s true.

Turning the water off, I dry my body like I’m in a race with myself, slipping my black boxer briefs back on but nothing else. It’s not like I can just walk back out there naked. She’d probably freak the hell out if she found me like that.

I gotta take it slow with Chelsea. That’s been my mantra ever since I met her. Slow, slow, slow.

So different from the guy who’s always wanted it fast, fast, fast and now, now, now.

The heat of the shower and the steam-filled bathroom and smoking the joint earlier has left me dizzy. I stumble out of the bathroom and flick off the light, make sure the deadbolt is locked on the door, and then I approach the bed, where Chelsea is still sleeping smack in the middle. I flick off the lamp on the bedside table and tug back the covers, sliding beneath them, lying practically on the edge since Chelsea is pretty much hogging the entire mattress.

She doesn’t even move when I get into bed with her, and I realize she’s a damn heavy sleeper. Sweet and so innocent-looking, she’s facing me, her hands tucked beneath her cheek. I lie there in the darkness, listening to her breathe, drinking in her features that are awash with the faint light that’s shining from the crack in the otherwise drawn heavy curtains.

Reaching out, I touch her damp hair, slide a few strands between my fingers. She smells fucking amazing and I scoot closer, sharing the same pillow, desperately wanting to lean in and press my mouth to hers.

But I hold back. Not yet. Despite my fucked-up, high-as-hell state, I know I can’t just barge in and make this happen. This is going to be subtle.

That last thought alone makes me laugh. Hell, I am high.

Chelsea stirs, a little sigh escaping her, and the sexy sound goes straight to my dick, making me even harder. And there’s no way I can hide it, either. I’m in my underwear and everything is pretty much on display there. Hope boners don’t scare her.

I laugh again because damn it, that shit is funny. Her eyelids flutter open and my breath stalls in my throat.

Damn it. I didn’t mean to wake her up.

“Owen.” She stretches, her arm brushing against me, and my cock stirs. Damn, she barely touches me and I’m ready to fire one off. “When did you come back?”

“A while ago. I took a shower.”

She sits up with a wince, running her hand through her damp hair as she looks around. “I’m totally taking over this bed. Sorry.” She scoots over and I follow her, thankful for more room since I felt like I was gonna fall off at any second. “My head feels better.” She rubs at her forehead, runs her fingers through her hair, and I wish I could be the one touching her like that.

“Yeah, you sure? I picked up some stuff for you in the gift shop. Ibuprofen,” I say. “I can go grab some and a glass of water if you want.”

“Oh, you did? Thank you. You’re so sweet.” Her voice is soft, as is her gaze as she smiles at me, shaking her head. “I should be okay.”

“Chels.” I clear my throat, ready to get this over with. “I’m sorry about what happened earlier.”

“What do you mean?” She frowns, looking confused and adorable.

“For what I told Fable,” I explain. “I only said we were friends to get her off my back. It was nothing.”

Her frown deepens. “So you mean we’re nothing?”

“That’s not what I said. I …” I shake my head. “What I told Fable meant nothing. But you, Chelsea? You definitely mean something to me.”

She stares at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Damn, she’s pretty. Lying here so close, I can see the freckles that dot the bridge of her nose. I’m tempted to lean in and kiss every single one.

“Thank you. I’m glad you told me the truth,” she whispers, her voice shaky.

“You okay?” My hands literally itch to touch her.

“I’m just … really tired.”

“Take off that robe and get under the covers, then,” I say on purpose, curiosity making my mind spin with all sorts of images. Every last one of them is of Chelsea naked under the robe.

“Um …” She climbs off the bed to stand on the opposite side of it, closest to the wall. “I’m … not wearing anything under it.”

I swallow hard. Exactly what I’ve been waiting to hear, but now that I know she’s naked under the robe for sure, I’m not sure what to do next. What to say.

And this is a first. I always know what to do with a naked girl.

Just not a naked Chelsea.

Chelsea

I’d been dreaming about him. Owen. His big, rough hands all over my skin, his hot, damp mouth on my neck as we rolled around on the enormous hotel bed. In my dream, I was begging him for more and he was moving down my body as I lay flat on my back in the center of the mattress, his mouth on my chest, my breasts, his tongue licking, circling my nipple, and oh my God, I wanted more, more, more …

I jolted awake and found him lying there beside me, watching me, his green gaze glittering in the barely there light cast from between the curtains. He was gorgeous and damp and shirtless, his muscular chest gleaming, the dips and planes of his beautiful body making my mouth water. I said his name to ground me, to make sure he was really there with me and not some dream apparition put before me because I know my mind would probably play tricks on me. I felt so needy, so restless after the dream, I wanted to make sure he was real. When he answered, I knew I had to do this.

I had to be bold. I wanted to.

Then he went and apologized, telling me I mean something to him. How could I respond to that? My first instinct was to run, but I had nowhere to hide. And I’m tired of running, of hiding from men and what they could do to me. I can’t live like this.

I want more. I want Owen.

Confessing I had nothing on beneath the robe sent a charge of awareness into the room that turned into this living, palpable thing, the tension nearly unbearable. We both stare at each other as I stand by the side of the bed, my confidence wavering, my body shaking with nerves. Maybe I can’t say in words what I want and neither can he, but I can certainly show him.

Show him that I want to give him my body—and my heart—freely.

With shaking fingers I untie the belt and push the robe open ever so slightly, revealing a shadow of myself. My breathing’s erratic, my heart is racing, and Owen scrambles up so he’s sitting, his back against the headboard, his hot gaze locked on me, encouraging me to continue without saying a word.

So I do. I thrust my shoulders back, stand up straighter, and push the robe off, letting it fall to the floor in a soft heap at my feet. Until I’m standing there next to the bed, completely naked and on display in front of a guy for the very first time in my life.

“Fuck, Chelsea.” He sounds pained and he shifts, his hand going between his legs as if he has to readjust himself and I swear, I break out in a blush all over my body. My skin is hot, between my legs I’m throbbing, and I …

Don’t know what to do.

“Come here,” he says, his voice low, the sound sending a fresh wave of tingles along my skin. He reaches out his hand and I take it, our fingers entwining as I get on the bed, which squeaks when he pulls me in closer so I have no choice but to climb on top of him.

Much like we sat together in the backseat of his car that first night we kissed, I’m straddling him, though this time I’m completely naked and there’s only a sheet and a blanket between us since he’s beneath the covers. His arms band around me, his hands spanning across my back, and I feel so exposed, unsure. Exhilarated.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs just before he devours me in the most consuming kiss of my life. He tastes like toothpaste. His hands are branding my back as he presses me close and my breasts are pushed firmly against his chest. The skin-on-skin contact feels so good I almost want to weep.

“So are you,” I whisper when we break apart, his mouth at my neck, my hands skimming over his bared chest. I feel nothing but muscle and heat as I scratch my nails over his skin. His pecs are hard, as are his nipples, and when I rake my nails over them, he hisses in a sharp breath, then kisses me so fiercely, so deep, I swear I see stars.

His lips are firm, delicious, and precise. He kisses me as if he knows exactly what I like, knows exactly what I want. His tongue slides into my open mouth and dances delicately with mine, sending a flurry of shivers throughout my naked body. I clutch him close, devouring him right back, and I hope he knows how much this moment, this kiss, in a dark hotel room with minimal barriers between us, means to me.

I grow slick between my legs with every thrust of his tongue, my nipples hard little points as they brush against his chest. I rope my arms around his neck and bury my hands in his damp hair, holding his mouth to mine, deepening our kiss even further if that’s possible, as I tighten my bent legs at his hips.

“Chelsea.” He whispers my name against my neck after he breaks apart from our kiss, his lips sliding down the length of my neck, his hands resting lightly at my waist. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Please. Touch me,” I encourage, shocked at my demand. But here in the dark, in a strange, unknown place, doing wonderful, unknown things, I feel strong. Bold. Different.