Page 52 of Haunted Spurs

And yet, the only thing I can think about right this second, as I devour her with my eyes, is how fucking sexy she looks in that set.

Silk. Pure, slippery black silk.

A camisole with paper-thin straps clinging to her chest, and a pair of shorts so short they should be illegal. All I can think about, as the dim glow of the bedside lamp caresses her skin, is just how much bare skin is on display.

The line of her shoulders, the soft curve of her pale thighs sinking into the mattress. Her, lying in my bed. That cascade of raven hair, highlighted by those two white streaks, spilling messily across my pillow.

The thousand, incredibly dirty ways I could rip that flimsy, pointless little outfit right off her.

Yeah, well... my thoughts aren't exactly gentlemanly right now.

I gather my courage, take a deep breath, and, completely ignoring the red alert blaring in my head, I slide under the covers, claiming my half of the mattress. The bed creaks under my weight. Her orchid scent invades my senses.

Nope. I am not a gentleman. I am a bastard of the highest order. I can feel the soft fabric of my sweatpants pulling dangerously tight. I am already rock hard, and I just laid down next to her. This will be the longest night of the century.

I'm about to roll onto my side, trying to find a position that avoids any physical contact, when a dull thud vibrates against the wall right behind the headboard.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Now what?" Selene huffs, lifting her head off the pillow.

"Oh, yeah... Dustin, harder!"

A high-pitched moan, followed by a deep groan.

I bite my lip, but I can’t help it. A low, raspy chuckle escapes my throat, vibrating in my chest. "I think that’s... pretty obvious," I reply, turning to look at her.

Selene’s mouth drops open in a perfect “O” of pure horror. She lets out a strangled sound, a mix of a grunt and a groan of pure despair, grabs the edge of the duvet, and yanks it right over her head, burying herself under the covers.

"Oh, no..." her muffled voice says from under the fabric. "Tell me this isn’t happening. I cannot believe we share a wall with them!"

I smile in the dark, shaking my head. It’s already funny, but her reaction makes it ten times worse.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The wall shakes again. Our neighbors’ bed creaks.

17

Mea Culpa

Selene

I'm ripped from my sleep by the crack of thunder and the violent, almost deafening sound of rain slamming against the windowpanes.

I blink my eyes open in the dark. And mentally thank the storm.

Thank God it woke me up. Yeah... because, apparently, I don't know how to sleep. Or rather, my stupid, incoherent, desperately horny subconscious doesn't know how to act when Ron Willers is around.

My breathing is short, ragged, and the air under the duvet is thick with a feverish heat. It takes me a second to process my position, and when I do, a rush of pure panic freezes my blood—a stark contrast to the fire blazing between my thighs.

No cuddling?

I AM clinging to him. My face is buried in the crook of his neck, my nose pressed right into the warm, musky scent of his skin. One of my arms is thrown across his broad chest, my fingers tangled in the fabric of his t-shirt.

But the worst part, the absolute disaster, is the rest of my body.

No accidental grinding?