He drops a kiss onto my forehead. “I’ll be the best booty call ever. Just wait and see.”
Yeah. There’s no doubt in my mind that the man can deliver. I drift off to sleep, probably wearing a big, goofy smile because the man has fucked all the common sense straight out of my head. I’ve never felt this giddy about a hookup. That’s never happened before. I mean, he’s also my first attempt at casual sex, but I’m giving myself an A for effort. Letting him go would be disappointing.
When I wake up minutes, hours, who-knows-how-much later, there’s a heavy, muscled arm draped over my stomach. I consider sucking in my belly because there’s more curve there than I like, but on the other hand, Vik doesn’t seem to mind. So I give up on miraculously transforming into a Victoria’s Secret model and trace my fingers over the ink on his forearm. He has matching bands, dark geometrical scrolls of mandalas that circle upward from the tops of his hands. But because some things can’t wait, no matter how beautiful he is, I shift his arm and make for the edge of the bed.
He grunts and rolls over. “You up? You need me to go?”
“Call of nature,” I overshare. He nods, settling back into the bed. God, he’s gorgeous. Because I’ve had my fingers in it for the better part of the night, his blond hair is tousled so he looks like some kind of sleeping bear. It cascades over his bare shoulders, almost reaching his chest. He snags my pillow, though, so it’s not like he’s a saint.
After pulling on his T-shirt to cover up my ass, I grab my phone and snap a picture. Some things are even better with photographic proof. I take care of my business in the bathroom and then step out onto my teeny-tiny balcony. If I twist my head and lean dangerously sideways, I actually have a view of the Strip. While I admire the sliver of pyramid that I can see, I call Brooklyn. That girl’s got a sick penchant for running at the crack of dawn, so I’m betting she’s already up. Sure enough, she answers.
When she picks up, I just blurt it out. “I had sex.”
“Congratulations.” She sounds faintly out of breath, so I’m betting she’s getting her jog on. “Anybody I know?”
In answer, I send her the picture I took of Vik.
“You screwed the tattoo artist?”
“He’s a biker, too, and he’s freaking gorgeous,” I point out. Strictly in the spirit of being honest, of course, and not because I feel like screaming or doing handstands because I, Harper George, have just banged the ever-living daylights out of a man who is very clearly a ten-plus on the hotness scale.
“Are you seeing each other?” Brooklyn’s breathing escalates, so either she’s just as affected by Vik’s picture as I am, or she’s definitely running.
“He’s my booty call.” God, that sounds weird. I mean, it also sounds downright fantastic, but this isn’t something I have any experience with.
I can practically hear Brooklyn rolling her eyes. “You’ve had your hands on that man and once was enough?”
“We have an arrangement.” I hope she doesn’t fall over laughing. “We’re going to call each other whenever we want sex.”
“Wow.” For a moment, she says nothing.
“Brooklyn?”
“I’m trying to imagine this,” she says. “Which is fun but I’m also a little worried about you.”
“Did you look at that picture? We should be cracking champagne to celebrate,” I protest.
“Booty calls can be dangerous.” She sighs. “It’s like buying the ten-dollar box of Star Wars Legos with the super-cool Darth Vader and then suddenly you’re upgrading to the four-million-piece Death Star set and every time you step barefoot on the carpet, you find another super-pointy, overlooked piece.”
“Is Vik Darth Vader or the Death Star in this example?”
“He’s trouble. Hot, gorgeous, bad-boy trouble. He’s going to look prettier and easier until you take him out of his box to play, and you need to be careful you don’t get hurt.”
She’s just looking out for me, I remind myself. “Duly noted.”
“Okay.” She sighs again, sounding a little happier. “But you still have to tell me all the details when we get together, okay? And you’re buying since you’re the one with the naked hottie in her bed.”
We say goodbye and I tiptoe back inside. Or try to.
A big, hard arm swings me around and off my feet.
“Morning, babe.”
Turns out my biker is even better than that first cup of morning coffee. We end up back in bed so he can kiss all my sore spots better, and then he takes off to do biker things, roaring off on his Harley before I have to invent awkward excuses to get him to leave.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Harper
“WHAT ABOUT THIS GUY?” I point to a dark-haired man on my phone while we wait for the light to change. Phone Guy is wearing a well-cut suit, a blue dress shirt open at the throat and no tie. The photo’s classy but relaxed, so I think he should go in my keeper pile.
Vik turns his head so he can peer at Bachelor Number Twenty-Two. Since I’m wrapped around his back and straddling his bike, he’s got limited viewing options. I wriggle, trying to get comfortable. While he makes a very sexy pillow, the man is hard and not just in the dick department. We’ve been hooking up for the last month, and the sex has been amazing. Vik may not be my forever man, but he’s definitely turning out to be perfect for right now.
Taking the phone from my hands, he makes a noncommittal noise. “You like the looks of him?”
It’s surprisingly difficult to explain why some men look okay when others look all wrong. So far, no one has ticked all the boxes on the Fuck Him and Marry Him list, but I have time. And while I look, I get hot sex on
