Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
The bed, which is dressed in dark gray sheets topped with a silky, purple bedcover, is complete with a remote beside the mattress. It suggests that the softness of the mattress can be controlled by pushing a button. It’s such a contrast to the classic nature of the ceiling, like I’m somehow straddling the past and the present at the same time, stuck between the modern convenience of adjusting the mattress’s comfort level and a ceiling torn out of a long-dead king’s home.
“Oh. You’re up.” Rhys’s voice greets me, low and rumbling as he walks into the bedroom. He stands casually with a hip jutted out and coffee in hand. He takes a sip.
And I feel my jaw drop before I have a chance to stop it.
Holy shit.
I already knew that Rhys was absolutely gorgeous, but seeing him like this, standing in front of me in nothing but a pair of black boxers? The line of his six-pack, the muscular V of his hips leading the eye to the trace of his cock bulging underneath the stretched fabric. I can’t help the way something clenches tight between my thighs, my body letting me know that it is ready for him, even though he hasn’t offered me a damn thing. In fact, he may have… refused me, if the flashes in my cloudy head are telling me the truth?
“Are you okay?” he smiles, walking over to the bed and perching on the edge of the mattress. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. I widen my eyes and I nod my head for added emphasis. “I was just…um…where are we, exactly?”
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he answers, with a smirk. “The place you begged to come back to last night.”
“I begged to come back here last night?” I repeat his answer, confusion filling my tone. “Wait. But we didn’t uh, right?”
“No, we didn’t,” he cuts me off. “Because I would never do something like that to you. You were way too out of it to consent. And I am a big fan of enthusiastic consent.” He puts extra stress on “enthusiastic.”
Consent?
Was I also begging him to hook up last night? I strain to remember the events of the evening, but my mind is still only offering up blurry bits and pieces.
Goddammit.
Did I really have that much to drink?
“I’m sorry if I was a huge mess,” I apologize, unsure of whether I made a total fool of myself or not. “I seriously can’t remember too much of what happened—”
“I told you that I wanted to fuck your brains out,” he reminds me cheerfully. “And you said that you wanted me to fuck your brains out, too. Enthusiastic, sure. Consent, no.”
“That…sounds like a lot,” I reply, my cheeks burning with pure embarrassment. My head drops.
“To be fair to you though, it sounded mostly like you were just trying to keep up with your friend,” he continues. “You mentioned something about not wanting to feel like a loser who can’t go home with a guy from the bar?”
“That does sound like something drunk me would say.” I nervously chuckle. “Well, either way. I’m sorry if I made things weird. I would never…I know that it’s not a good idea to mix business and pleasure, and sleeping with one of my bandmates just seems like begging for trouble—”
“The offer still stands, Alyssa.”
“…I’m sorry?”
“The offer still stands,” he repeats, with a wide grin. “If you ever want me to fuck your brains out, just let me know.”
A smile spreads across my face, which is starting to burn again, now for an altogether different reason. “Do you think you could give me a ride home?” I faux-casually change the subject. “Usually I would just call an Uber, but I’m guessing my phone is dead since I didn’t charge it all night.”
“Of course.” He nods as he stands up from the mattress. “Just give me a minute to put on some actual clothes. Unless you like this look better?”
“I…” My brain stalls out as I glance over at him again, my fingers itching to trail up and down his tattoos, my lips yearning to place small kisses all down that muscled torso.
“Just kidding.” Rhys smirks.
And I force myself to look away from his frame, inappropriate thoughts trickling up from every corner of my mind.
It’s a quiet ride back to my apartment, with the majority of my time spent staring out the passenger window of Rhys’s perfectly preserved old 1980’s Honda coupe. The car fits his personality, just as loud in both engine and in terms of outward presence and style, with a surprisingly muted inner reality, the dark gray tones of the inside of the vehicle so opposite to its red exterior. The bumpy ride is not helping as I stare over at his jeans-clad thighs.