6. Neomi
The scent of him surrounds me. His breath is steady against the back of my neck and his arm heavy around my waist. The first light of morning is slinking through the curtains, and the city sounds like it’s waking up outside.
I should get up. I should shower or give him some signal that it’s time to go. I should distance myself from him.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am, soaking in the impossible reality that I, Neomi Valentine—cold and calculated—passed out in some man’s arms after he made me squirt for the first time in my life and then fucked me senseless.
God help me.
I don’t remember falling asleep. But I do remember his fingers brushing through my hair, his mouth at my shoulder, the way he slowly kissed my skin, like he had all night to learn every piece of me.
And the pathetic part is, I curled right into his side and sunk into his arms as I thought about ways I could get him back into my bed after this night is over.
I don’t do repeats. My profession requires me to be in too many different cities to tie myself to one man. So, I keep things simple—attraction, fucking and moving on.
Lars might be the exception to my rule.
He moves behind me, legs stretching as his arm leaves my waist. I blink, vision blurry, and push up on my elbows just as he slips from the bed. The morning light hits his back—long lines of muscle, smooth movement, control so natural it makes something coil in my chest.
He glances over his shoulder and, fuck. That face shouldn’t be legal.
His hair is mussed from my hands and those piercing blue eyes assessing and memorizing me all in the span of a heartbeat. He’s even more attractive in the dim morning light than I remember from last night. Especially with his stubble shadowing his jawline.
“Are you waking up?” he asks. His voice is gravel and warmth.
“Barely,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes. “What time is it?”
“Too early.” He buttons his shirt. “I’ve got meetings today.”
Meetings. That’s…annoyingly vague. I try not to pout but I feel my face do something bordering on undignified.
His mouth twitches. “I’ve never had a night like this.”
He pauses as he looks down at me sprawling across the sheets he ruined me in just hours ago.
“How often do you play at the game?” he asks.
Ah, there it is. The easy way to see me again without admitting he wants to. I’ll play this game.
I stretch, letting the sheet slide low to expose my breasts, just to keep his attention exactly where I want it. “Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.”
His gaze drags over me—slow and hungry. “I’ll see you Friday,” he says.
His response isn’t a question, but I hope it’s a promise. Before I can even tease him for it, he bends, cups my jaw, and kisses me.
It’s softer than last night, slower, but no less devastating. A single press of lips that feels like he’s claiming something he has no damn right to. I exhale into it, fingers curling in the sheets until his warmth leaves me.
“Have a good day, Bella. Coffee and breakfast will be delivered soon. None of that hotel swill, proper coffee.”
“How do you know I like coffee?” My brow knits, teasing.
“Just a hunch.” He brushes his lips to my cheek one more time. “Goodbye, Neomi.”
Then he straightens, grabs his keys from the dresser, and heads for the door.
The latch clicks and silence follows. I flop back onto the bed, stare at the ceiling, and exhale one long, dangerous breath.
What. The. Hell.
I have set, polished rules. I don’t sleep with men I meet at poker tables. I don’t fall asleep in someone’s arms. I don’t let someone leave me wanting more.
And yet, my pulse won’t slow. Lars is a problem. A gorgeous, orgasm-delivering problem.