Drake slipped Oakley’s over his eyes and flashed that million-dollar grin. “Talk soon.”
Then he pushed through the front doors into the gray January day.
A thud pulled Noah Hunt from an uneasy sleep. His eyelids felt heavy, his tongue thick, his body severely fatigued, like he’d punished the powder with streetstyle and big-air runs all day, every day for a week straight.
He forced his eyes open, his lids scratchy, his vision blurred. Only when he fought to focus did he realize his vision was blocked by long blonde hair lying across his face. Trying to fill tight lungs, Noah drew a deep breath and sucked in the thick, spicy scent of perfume instead of clean air, making him cough. Movement atop him explained the compression across his chest.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his voice barely a rasp.
He let his body sink back into the softness beneath him, struggling to remember where the hell he was, with whom, and why. The night before crowded his mind in broken, blurry pieces—a boisterous local bar. Hot chicks everywhere. Loud rock music.
Reaching up, he pushed the woman’s hair from his face, turned his head, and focused on the eight-foot-wide screen in the theater of his home in Lake Tahoe.
Home.
Lake Tahoe.
His mind drew up the memory of a bunch of his buddies warming up after a day riding powder, and…oh yeah—that was where the trouble began. Damn Mercer. He’d traded out Noah’s club soda and lime for a vodka tonic, at which point Noah had given himself permission to relax a little.
“Bad fucking idea.”
He pressed his hand to the woman’s shoulder to lift her, nudge her, wake her enough to move. No luck. She was out cold. And his body hurt everywhere. His ankle definitely took the lead, but his head, his arms, his ribs, his ass, his thighs—every damn inch of him ached like a sonofabitch. He worked his way out from under the woman, and his cock rubbed against her soft curves, shooting a familiar need through his groin.
“Shit.” He forced himself the rest of the way and rolled off the couch, catching himself with one hand against the slate floor. But his arm gave under the pressure, and his shoulder slammed the stone. Noah groaned, rolled to his back to stare at the pine-lined cathedral ceiling, and thanked God for heated floors.
He tried to straighten out the tangle in his head. But his pulse thrummed at the center of his brain, stabbing like an ice pick with each beat.
“Fail,” he muttered, rubbing stinging eyes. “Serious fucking fail.”
He didn’t remember flirting with a blonde like the one passed out on his couch. Didn’t remember how they’d gotten here. Hell, he didn’t even remember fucking her. Which was a wicked waste since she was the first woman he’d brought home in months. Figured he’d pick up a blonde. Figured he’d go back to his old dog ways. Figured those ways would hurt like a bitch.
“Jus’ let me sleep a li’l longer, baby.” This soft slur came from his fling. “I’ll make it up to you.”
He worked himself up on an elbow and looked at her, but her face was turned away, so he glanced down the length of her body. All the important areas were still covered in a black bra and panties. He glanced down at his own body, his boxer briefs still in place and sporting major morning wood.
He dropped back to the floor with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and walked his mind back to the clearest moment in the night, then slowly picked forward. Splintered memories gave him enough to piece together the chick on his couch climbing on him like a monkey before passing out long before either of them had found satisfaction. They hadn’t even gotten naked, for God’s sake.
“Worse than a fail…” He wasn’t sure if the situation was funny or pathetic. He only knew it was over. Thank God.
A thump sounded distantly from the direction of the kitchen, then silence filled the house again. His mind darted back to the sound that had woken him, and a tingle of discomfort spread along his neck. He pushed up to his elbows again, eyes narrowed at the theater’s closed doors. Soft footsteps touched his ears. The slide of glass on glass whispered, followed by another soft thud.
Bad morning for one of his buddies to make himself at home. But, hell, what did he know? He could have invited the entire U.S. Snowboarding Team over to his house last night and not remembered.
He slowly worked himself to a sitting position, searching the murky depths of his brain for the day of the week: Saturday. Then glanced at the cable receiver for the time: 10:47 a.m. Whoever was messing around in his kitchen wasn’t his housekeeper, and Drake would have been yelling for Noah from the foyer.
Thump, crinkle, was followed by a muttered curse
and comment he couldn’t make out but that sounded like a female voice. He frowned hard, making his forehead hurt, and he rubbed at the discomfort, wondering if he’d fallen even further into a sexual abyss than he’d realized and agreed to some kinky ménage last night.
Didn’t really matter, considering nothing had happened. It was just all such an epic…fail.
Noah pulled his good foot beneath him and used the sofa to drag himself to stand, but when he put weight on his bad leg, pain sliced through his ankle, blasted his foot, and speared his calf. Fiery, lung-seizing, stick-gnawing pain.
“Fuck.” He doubled over and fell back against the arm of the sofa. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”
He gripped his knee with both hands, knowing he didn’t dare touch his lower leg, and rocked back and forth, eyes squeezed tight, teeth clenched. God dammit. That had come out of nowhere, the way it used to right after the accident and surgery.
“Baby?” The woman lifted her head. “You okay?”