Page 81 of Fallen Hero

Three orgasms in one day.

Three.

My smile deepened, and I didn’t care about that either.

I was going to lie here and bask in my newfound good fortune.

I was going to lie here and pretend I was twenty and allow myself a few moments of immaturity while I remembered every detail of Mason’s mouth on me.

I deserved it.

Hell, I’d earned the right to savor the moment.

Later would come soon enough, and reality would come crashing back in.

Later would also mean I’d have to face Pete, who I was pretty sure had heard the culmination of Mason’s fantastic cunnilingus.

Good Lord, that was a cringy word.

On that thought, no longer glorying in all things orgasmic but instead embarrassing, I rolled out of bed.

I needed to wash off the five layers of makeup I’d worn out to dinner—which, after two orgasms, felt like a lifetime ago.

Silly but true. It felt like I’d lost track of time when I was with Mason. Like the outside world didn’t exist, and it was just me and him in our own version of paradise. Not that I’d admit it to Mason, but even arguing with him made me feel . . . normal.

Up until a few days ago, I’d never exchanged a cross word with Atlanta. We didn’t bicker or banter. Tom didn’t count; I didn’t argue with him. When we didn’t see eye to eye, or in the rare cases he attempted to play overprotective overlord, I voiced my disagreement, he voiced his, and that was it. I didn’t yell at him, my heart rate didn’t elevate, and I certainly didn’t get worked up to the point I wanted to jump him and hump his leg.

Oh God, more embarrassment. I’d blundered the whole unbuttoning his shirt, and I think I climbed him like a tree—I couldn’t exactly remember that part, I was too turned on, but I was blaming that on Atlanta. She’d put the thought in my head.

I couldn’t regret what I’d done, but damn if the timing didn’t suck.

Now I had to face Pete and pray that he didn’t tell Fallon.

Thankfully, my phone on the dresser rang, stopping my spiraling thoughts before they could get any worse.

Speak of the devil . . . my old pal Atlanta.

“Hey,” I greeted.

“Hey?” she greeted back, but hers sounded more like a question.

I waited for her to go on. Normally I could withstand the silence, but not when I was in the middle of an embarrassment episode—was that a real thing?

“You called?” I broke and asked.

“I wanted to see how your dinner with Amir went, but now I want to know why you sound . . . squeaky.”

Squeaky?

Great.

Perfect.

I traded my oral sex V-card for a squeaky voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I told her, as I made my way into the bathroom and closed the door. My gaze caught my reflection and my breath caught in my lungs. My one breast had . . . was that . . . beard burn?

“What’s happening right now?” Atlanta asked. “You sound like you’re having an asthma attack.”