Nope. Nope.
NOPE.
It’s Seth. Standing outside my room. Hair a rumpled mess. Hazel eyes heavy with exhaustion.
My eyes dart back to the TV, and there it is—Mr. Wellington and his salt and pepper hair, dashingly sharp jawline and soft brown eyes is smiling down at his wife who’s looking up at him with love. Bright as day. Glow-in-the-dark dildo in hand, mid-thrust, frozen in time on the screen like the world’s most X-rated screensaver.
Do I rip the cords out of the TV out? Are there even cords in this TV?
Fuck!It’s one of those fancy mounted TVs. No visible cords. No buttons. Just endless humiliation if Seth sees what I was watching.
I race back to the bed one more time, trying to get the TV remote to work but it doesn’t. I’m fumbling with my phone now, trying to figure out how to stop casting, while Seth’s voice comes through the door, deep and gravelly, making my stomach do things it absolutely shouldn’t be doing right now.
“Bri, I’m exhausted, and I know you’re not asleep. I could hear your TV from next door. My air conditioning’s busted, and I’m sweating like a pig. Let me in. Please.”
He sounds desperate and exhausted. I can empathize because I need him not to see me like this. I mash every button possible, whisper-yelling at my phone like it can hear me.
STOP. STOP. STOP. FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING, STOP CASTING.
Finally—fucking finally—the TV goes black. I swipe a hand down my face, exhale a breath to try to steady myself and then yank the door open with a shaky grin.
“Hello. Good day.”
Good day?!
Seth’s brows raise but I can tell he’s too tired to question whatever weirdness just exited my mouth.
“You know what? I don’t even want to know,” he says. He breezes past me, grumbling under his breath about demanding a refund on his room. And then, he collapses face-first, firm ass up in the air onto the bed.
My bed.
He’s shirtless. Noticeably sweaty. Wearing nothing but hisMayhemwarm-up shorts that are hanging low on his hips. His massive upper back muscles glisten in the dim glow from the bedside light and when he lets out a deep, muffled groan into the sheets I realize it’s happening.
It’s the one-bed trope. Yeah. The girls were right. It’s always better when there’s a one-bed trope thrown in. Ups the tension and heightens the attraction.
“Can I get you water? Ice? Anything?”My pussy, perhaps?My voice is a little too high-pitched, but can you blame me? I’m in a hotel room with the most attractive athlete I’ve ever known who I’ve already seen naked.
And let’s not forget how horny I am.
Your honor, but I’m just a girl.
I adjust the glasses on my face, trying to get a better look at him.
“I just need the air conditioner, and I’ll be fine.” He groans, his voice muffled against the pillow. “What the fuck temperature did you set this to?”
“Sixty.”
That gets his attention. He lifts his head, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. If he knew what I was thinking about right now, he’d see how true that is.
“Why would you do that?”
“I was hot.”
He pushes himself up on his elbows, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I bet yours threw mine off.”
“Well, don’t blame me for that. Blame the hotel’s wiring.”
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before flopping back down, throwing an arm across his eyes. “Sorry. I’m being an asshole because I’m hot, sore, and tired.”
