Serving Tegan (Sexy As Sin)
Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Roman
I would have thought I was too old for wet dreams. As I pull myself intoconsciousness, I'm aware of the heat of someone pressed against me. I'm aware of a hand creepingdown my chest, headed straight my cock. I'm aware of the scent of lavenderand something else, something minty.
And I begin to realize that I’m not dreaming at all, not evenclose. There’s someone in my bed, someone pressed against me. I've got my hands on smoothskin, the dip of a hip. Without thinking, I trace higher, find the curve of a bare breast.
My eyes shoot open.
In the dark, it takes me a second to orient myself. I'm staring up at the ceiling, and there'ssomeone pressed to my side. A certain someone who is definitely about to put their hand down my shorts.
“Are you hard?” the woman breathes into my ear. My handreaches out to wrap around the thin wrist. It takes all my willpower to stop the downward descent, especially because I'm not entirely positive I'm not stilldreaming.
Except that I can’t remember ever being aware of smells in a dream, or the heat of someone's breath against my neck as they kissed me there.
“What the fuck is going on?” I growl.
The lips on my neck freeze. “Oh, my God,” the feminine voice says, and she is gone in an instant, her handripped away, her body catapulting from mine.
I can make out the shape of her in the dark, a small, shadowy figure scrambling around. I reach over forthe lamp, my body rendered immobile the second the light cascades over both of us. Because when I turn on the light, there is the half-naked form andthe shocked face of Tegan Sharpe, the Women’s Tennis Association’s darling.
She's in a pair of athletic shorts that I know for certain she wasn't wearing a second ago, because my fingers had fully touched that hip, bare except for some kind oflacy thing. She hasn't quite managed to get into her shirt, and I get an eyeful of the tits that I was touching.
Her eyes meet mine, and she presses her shirt to her chest.“Hey, Roman,” she says, smiling like we just passed each other in a hallway.
“What the fuck are you doing in my room? How the fuck did you get in here?” What I actually want to ask is what the fuck she was doing trying to give me a hand job in the middle of the night. I pull my blankets up to my hips so she can't see that I’m still extremely stiff.
But there's nothing to be done about the state of my bare chest, and I see her eyes flicker down, run over my shoulder, where I have a particularly grotesque surgery scar.
“I’m sorry,” she says, inching back towards the door, her blonde hair a mess, falling out of the ponytail it was in as she grasps for the doorknob behind her back. “I’m in the wrong room.”
What’s the right room? I want to ask. “How the fuck did you get a key to my room?” I ask instead.
Like she's just remembered that she does, in fact, have a key, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the little card. She tosses it onto the stained carpet.
“Sorry,” she says again.
And then she's gone. Just like that.
Of all the wake-up calls I've ever gotten in my time as a tennis player and then a tennis coach, this was certainly the most shocking.
And that's coming from someone who was once raised from the dead at 3:30 in the morning with a bucket of ice water to the face.My room falls quiet again, and I'm left sitting there in my bed with a raging hard-on, staring at the back of my hotel room door.
What the fuck just happened?