Page 28 of Real Regrets


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This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up in bed with a woman, but it’s one of a few times. My romantic relationships can be boiled down to one word: short.

And lately, all of my sexual encounters have been unattached and uncomplicated. Where numbers aren’t exchanged and preferably names aren’t either. When I don’t wake up in the same bed as a stranger. No awkward morning of picking crumpled clothes off the floor and exchanging forced small talk.

Based on how hungover I am, I’m not surprised I was drunk enough not to ask her to leave. If I asked for her name, I can’t remember it. I rub my right temple in an unsuccessful attempt to ease the pounding headache. I don’t want to move but am too uncomfortable to fall back asleep.

As I’m deliberating that quandary, the blonde beside me stirs. She rolls on her side, facing me. Her face is still partially obscured by her hair, but I see her eyes scrunch shut like she’s trying to chase sleep.

Our legs brush beneath the covers, the touch of her soft, bare skin instantly affecting me. Regardless of how much I had to drink last night—and how much is still lingering in my system—I’m completely capable of getting hard.

I shift onto my back, staring up at the plaster ceiling. My brain feels like sludge, soggy and uncooperative. This is my hotel room. I have no idea who the woman next to me is or what happened between us last night.

I try to recall yesterday. I remember leaving the office and driving to the airport to come to Vegas. After that, it’s disorganized flashes. Talking to Garrett. Eating steak. Women on swings. Flashes that slip away like water in cupped hands whenever I try to expand my memory.

What the fuck did you do?

I’m distracted by a tug. The sheet slips off my chest, as the woman beside me sits up. She yawns, rubbing her eyes and then tucking her hair behind one ear. The white sheet pools around her waist, offering a spectacular view I’m in no position to resist. Literally. Looking over, lying down while she’s sitting, all I can see are round, perky tits.

My dick reacts, stiffening further. As annoyed as I am with myself for getting so drunk, I can’t recall how I ended up here, I’m also applauding him. Because I’ve never had a specific type when it comes to women, but she’s somehow exactly what I’d look for.

She glances over at me and freezes, appearing just as shocked to be in bed with me as I was to look over and see her. I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

The blonde woman clears her throat, sweeping her blonde hair over one shoulder. “My eyes are up here."

I focus on her blue irises and say the first thing that pops into my head. “Your boobs are closer.”

She surprises me by laughing. Since she hasn’t lifted the sheet yet, I watch her tits bounce with the movement. There’s something oddly mesmerizing about it. I’m still drunk, obviously. She looks beautiful, even with flecks of mascara below her eyes and blonde hair in a wild tangle.

Then she’s suddenly a whirl of movement, tripping over the hem of the comforter that’s haphazardly hanging off her side of the bed. “Shit!”

“What’s wrong?” I sit up, wincing when the movement rachets the pounding in my head up to a whole new level.

“I was supposed to be at the airport ten minutes ago,” she replies, shimmying into a wrinkled navy dress that looks vaguely familiar. She picks up her phone and frowns at it. “Dammit. Dead.”

I watch as she rushes over toward the couch, grabbing the back for balance as she slips into her heels.

“Airport?” I ask, my voice a sleepy rasp.

She glances over. “I’m flying back to LA this morning.”

“Oh.” I’m weirdly…disappointed by that revelation.

“Are you still drunk?”

“Probably. I feel like roadkill. How much did I drink last night?”

“I don’t know. A lot?”

I groan, dropping my hands in my palms and massaging my forehead. A few seconds later, I hear the tap of heels against hardwood.

“Here.” Something damp and cold brushes my right arm.

I raise my head to find her holding a chilled water from the minifridge out to me. “Thanks.”

She shrugs. “You’re the one paying for it.”

A smirk tilts her lips upward. I trace the curve with my eyes, then focus on the rest of her features.

Hannah, I suddenly remember. Her name is Hannah.

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