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"Fuck, that window is really bright," he warns.
It is horrifyingly bright. I squeeze my eyes closed. Anything to keep from reactivating my hangover.
He laughs and helps me to the room.
"You can open your eyes now," he says.
I do. The room is amazing. The furniture is a mix of bright and calm blues, but with the curtains drawn, the room is dim enough to bear.
Luke lays me on the bed and brings me a cup of water. He laughs as I squint at him with what must be a look of utter agony.
"You're cute when you're miserable," he says.
"You would know."
I feel his hands on my hips. Then they're unzipping me.
"Don't get any ideas," he says, as he lifts my ass and pulls my jeans to my feet.
I have all sorts of fucking ideas.
I blink my eyes open, meeting his gaze. There's always something sincere about him, but it's heightened today. It's like he's desperate to please me, to prove he really can make me happy, really can make this work.
My chest tightens. I'm getting ahead of myself. The two of us are in a gorgeous hotel room in the middle of paradise. We can discuss these kinds of awful matters later, when we're free from aching heads.
"I have a few ideas," I say.
He smirks, swinging his knees around my hips so he's straddling me. I arch into him, pressing my crotch against his.
"You're dreaming," he says.
But he places his arms alongside my body, leans down, and presses his lips into mine.
His kiss is hot and sweet, a wonderful spark igniting everything inside me. A gentle warmth floods my body. We've barely touched in the last two weeks. God, we need to touch.
I dig my hands into his hair, pulling him closer. The sweetness slips away, his kiss becoming hungry and desperate. I'm pouring need into him, just like I have a million times before.
He breaks our kiss. "This isn't what I meant by a hangover cure." His voice is heavy and strained.
And he's hard. He wants this as much as I do.
"You couldn't have meant anything better than this," I say.
He leans closer, his fingertips on my shoulders. "Not better. Just different." He runs his fingers over my skin, until they're on my neck, my chin, my cheek.
"What was it?" I turn my head away from the window, my eyes fluttering closed.
His breath is on my ear, his hands back on my shoulders. "I can show you."
The whisper sends shivers all the way to my fingers and toes. He brings his mouth closer to my ear, sliding his tongue over the lobe.
I dig my hands into the cotton sheets, shifting my body into his. He sucks on my earlobe with the gentlest pleasure.
"Was this your plan?" I ask. I swear I had a sassy follow-up, but it's impossible to think with his mouth on me.
He runs his finger along the neckline of my T-shirt, pressing the fabric against my skin. He traces from one shoulder to the other and back again.
"Luke..." I groan. It always gets a response.
