Sharing shane, p.5
Sharing Shane, page 5
He shifted in his seat again, trying to find a position that didn’t make his dick feel like it was being pinched. He was still sporting a semi, thanks to Veronica’s tailored shirt and bombshell tits, and it wasn’t going away. He considered heading to the bathroom to take care of it, but joining the Mile-High Club solo was just too fucking creepy. Besides, the way his morning was going, a flight attendant would probably burst in on him and the whole of first-class see him with his dick in his hand.
For the sake of his dignity, he stayed in his seat. Resigned to spending the rest of the flight to Atlanta—and the connecting flight to Bermuda, and the shuttle ride that would take them to the resort—in discomfort, he sighed again. Maybe a nap would help. He could catch up on some of the sleep he’d lost over the last week of hectic, pre-vacation work, and if he was lucky, he’d have a bad dream that would chase away even the slightest hint of boner.
Except when he closed his eyes, all he could see was big hazel eyes, soft red lips, and the shadowy hint of cleavage tucked behind a crisp white shirt.
Annoyed and aroused, he opened his eyes and glared at the dark hair above the seat in front of him.
By the time they reached the resort, the sun was setting over the ocean and Shane’s nerves had been stretched to their breaking point. He’d been seated next to Veronica on the connecting flight, in coach this time. They’d been packed in together like sardines in a can, and no matter how he’d contorted his body, some part of him had been touching some part of her the entire flight. He’d thought it was bad when his thigh had been forced up against hers, but the worst part had been the arms. They were both wearing short sleeves, so when his forearm had briefly pressed against hers it was skin against skin. And hers was warm and soft and smelled somehow of peaches.
Even hours later he could still smell it, and it wasn’t until he was walking up the path to their condo behind her and he lifted his duffle bag over his shoulder that he realized it was because she’d somehow transferred the scent onto him. Peaches and cream and something else that teased just underneath the fruity scent and made his dick hard, and he had to stifle what felt like his forty-seventh groan of the day.
Veronica paused and half turned, a look of concern on her face, her pretty lips pursed. “Did you say something?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip, her eyes searching his in the dim light of the path. Then she gave a little shrug and began walking again. “I think we’re almost there.”
He said nothing, concentrating on the back of her head as he walked. Her hair was tangled from the day’s travels, reminding him of Wyatt’s fuck-hair, which was not helping the boner situation. He’d tried keeping his eyes on his feet, but she’d stopped abruptly to let a lizard scamper across the path, and he’d nearly plowed into her. Since then he’d backed up so there was a good four feet between them and kept his gaze resolutely on her head.
Mostly, anyway. The sway of her hips—round, generous, excellent for grabbing while he buried his face in her cunt—kept trying to draw his attention, and he was only human, after all.
And horny, he thought sardonically. Don’t forget horny.
The thick vegetation on either side of the path abruptly gave way to a small clearing, and nestled in the center of it was the tidy cottage that was their destination.
“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, and he heard the exhaustion in her throaty voice. “I want a drink and a shower and to fall into bed for eight hours.”
“I could use a drink.”
He caught the startled look she threw him, and couldn’t blame her. It was the most he’d said to her since, “Thanks for the Dew,” back in the Detroit airport.
“What’s your poison?” she asked, mounting the two shallow steps to the cottage’s front door. She had the key card from the front desk in one hand and her messenger bag over her shoulder. He’d offered to take her rollaway by the simple method of picking it up, and after a brief protest she’d let him. They could have had a porter bring their luggage and show them to the cottage, but the staff had been scrambling and neither of them had wanted to wait. So, he’d picked up her bag and his, she’d taken the key and directions to the cottage, and they’d set off on foot.
“I’m not picky,” he answered with a shrug as she fit the card into the slot and shoved open the door.
The blast of cool air was a welcome slap in the face. Even though the air held only a hint of humidity, the long day of travel had left him feeling grimy and sweaty, and the fifteen-minute walk hadn’t helped. Veronica hit the light switch beside the door, and he stepped past her into the room. “Nice.”
It was one large, open space. A small kitchen was to the left, defined by the marble-topped island separating it from the rest of the room, white tiles and shiny appliances gleaming in the light. The living space beyond boasted a huge sectional sofa in white, arranged so part of it faced the gas fireplace and the big-screen television mounted over it, and part faced the wall of glass that made up the entire back of the cottage. There were lights on outside, enough to see the small patio with an outdoor eating area and a hammock, and the beach beyond. On the right side of the room two short steps led to a platform that held a huge bed, mounded high with pillows and scattered with pink rose petals.
“Huh.”
He turned to look at her and noticed was chewing on her lower lip. His dick noticed, too. “What?”
She glanced at him, color climbing into her cheeks, then away again. “That,” she said and pointed to the bed.
He looked again. Big bed, lots of pillows, flower petals. The whole thing was draped in gauzy curtains that he guessed were meant to act as mosquito netting, or a more romantic, less effective version of it, and more gauzy curtains stretched across the room at the edge of the platform. They were pulled back now, and wouldn’t be very effective at creating privacy when they were closed, but he figured it went with the beachy-romance theme.
“What about it?”
She gnawed on her lower lip some more, still staring at the bed. “Do you see another bedroom?”
He looked around. There was a door just inside the entrance that when opened revealed a small closet, and another just off the steps of the platform that held a powder room. He set his duffle down and climbed the steps, ignoring the bed, and found another closet and a full bath done in the same gleaming white tile as the kitchen. It had a walk-in shower that could’ve comfortably accommodated the defensive line of the Detroit Lions, and a separate soaking tub.
He stepped back out. “Bathroom.”
She was sitting on one of the barstools lined up at the kitchen island, the only seating in the room other than the enormous sofa. She looked up when he stepped down from the platform, her eyes wide.
“What?” he asked.
“There’s only one bed.”
He shrugged. “So? The couch is huge. I’ll sleep there.”
If he’d thought that answer would bring relief, he’d been mistaken. If anything, she looked even more worried, and started gnawing on her lower lip again.
“I can’t let you do that,” she protested, her husky voice ragged. “I’m shorter, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
He shook his head. The manners his mother had spent years drilling into him may have mostly faded away, but a scrap or two still lingered. “Nope. You get the bed.”
“Shane,” she said, and hearing his name on her lips in that throaty, sexy voice did nothing to stifle the party trying to break out in his pants. “You won’t possibly be comfortable on that thing. What if you fall off?”
He rolled his eyes. “Then I hit the floor. I’ll survive.”
She shook her head, making her dark hair swing. “I insist you take the bed.”
“No.”
He bent to retrieve his duffle and, ignoring the way her mouth had dropped open, carried it to the sofa and plunked it down on a soft cushion. “There.”
She only blinked at him, her mouth still hanging open, so he shrugged and stepped into the powder room. He didn’t bother trying to piss through his half hard-on, just splashed cold water on his face until he felt almost human again. He was tempted to take down his pants and run cold water over his dick, but he knew if he took it out, he wouldn’t be able to resist giving it a stroke. He’d save it for the shower later, hopefully when Veronica was fast asleep and unlikely to hear him groaning his way toward orgasm.
He wondered if he could convince her to wear earplugs if he told her he snored.
He mopped his face with the pretty pink towel, adjusted the front of his jeans, opened the door, and nearly walked right into her.
“Jesus.” He took a quick step back, slamming his shoulder into the doorjamb, and scowled at her. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest and a mutinous expression on her face. “What?”
“You’re taking the bed,” she announced.
He snorted and stepped around her, careful not to brush against her. If he got any more of that sex-and-peaches smell on him, he was going to jump out of his skin.
“I mean it,” she said, trailing behind him as he walked toward his duffle bag.
“Uh-huh.” He dug out a fresh T-shirt and whipped the one he was wearing over his head. He’d have liked to get out of the traveling clothes completely, but his pants weren’t coming off until she was either gone or asleep. “I’m going to go get some dinner. Want to come?”
“No, thank you.” Her voice sounded strangled. “I want to talk about the sleeping arrangements.”
He tugged the clean shirt over his head and left it untucked. Maybe it would help cover his dick, which unfortunately had perked up again. Veronica in a snit was pretty fucking sexy.
“Sleeping arrangements are handled,” he said, digging out his phone to turn it on and check the battery. He’d left it off all day, so it was still fully charged. He tucked it back into his pocket and looked at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide, and she was biting her lower lip so hard he was surprised it wasn’t bleeding. “You, bed. Me, couch. Dinner?”
“I’m not hungry.”
He shrugged. That was probably a lie since he hadn’t seen her eat all day, but she was a grownup. She could feed herself. “I’m going to take the key card. I’ll get another on my way back, once the check -n crowd has died down.”
She blinked, clearly thrown off by the change in topic. “Oh. Good idea.”
He nodded and scooped it off the kitchen counter. “See you later.”
“I’m sleeping on the couch,” she called after him.
“No, you’re not,” he grunted, and let the door slam shut behind him.
He headed up the path, the lights of the hotel gleaming in the distance. He’d check in with Wyatt and Seth, see if they had dinner plans. They’d already been here a full day, so maybe they could tell him where he could get a steak. He wanted red meat, a beer, and to not smell peaches and sex long enough for his dick to go down. If he was lucky, he could stay away long enough for Veronica to go to bed. Then he could get his shower, handle his unruly penis, and catch some sleep.
By the time he made it back to the cottage, he was all but dead on his feet. Though it was barely midnight, the long day of travel had caught up with him, and he was more than ready to crash. He noticed the room service cart on the side of the small front porch and surmised that Veronica had ordered dinner in. No doubt some invisible staff member would whisk it away before morning.
He shook his head as he shoved the key card into the slot. This place was fancy with a capital F, something that had been made very clear to him at dinner. He’d texted Wyatt, but he and Seth had been at a firm function and unavailable. After making plans to get together the next morning for breakfast, Shane had wandered into the hotel restaurant in search of a steak.
The maître d hadn’t exactly sneered at his untucked T-shirt and worn jeans, but Shane could tell he’d wanted to. After scanning his keycard to make sure he hadn’t just walked in off the street, he’d suggested a seat at the bar. Shane had been tempted to demand a table in the center of the room just to fuck with the guy, but he’d been too tired and too hungry to care. He’d taken the seat at the bar, ordered a ribeye, and flirted shamelessly with the bartender.
The buxom redhead with the bold pink lipstick had made it more than clear that he was welcome back at her place for dessert when her shift ended at two. He’d been half tempted to take her up on it, except his dick, which had been at half-mast for most of the damn day, had chosen that precise moment to finally clock out.
He’d passed on the redhead and walked the long way back to the cottage. He’d thought about detouring to the beach to watch the moon over the water but knew he’d be shaking sand out of his boots for the next week. So here he was, creeping into the cottage at midnight, hoping Veronica and her luscious tits were already asleep.
He shut the door quietly behind him and toed off his boots, leaving them at the front door, and crept forward on stocking feet. He left the lights off since the open curtains let in plenty of ambient light, and he had no trouble making his way across the room. He glanced toward the bed, saw it was empty, and took two steps forward to peer over the back of the couch.
She’d made herself a little nest with one of the extra pillows from the bed and a spare sheet and was curled up in the corner of the sectional, sound asleep.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
She wore some kind of oversized T-shirt as a nightgown, and it was big enough that it had slipped down to bare her shoulder and the upper curve of one breast. Her hair was tousled, as though she’d tossed and turned a bit before falling asleep, and her breathing was slow and deep. Her lips were parted, little puffs of air escaping on every exhale so one wayward lock of dark brown hair fluttered in the light breeze.
She exhaled again, this time with a little rumble of sound that had to be the cutest snore he’d ever heard. And fuck a damn duck, she still smelled like peaches and sex.
He stared down at her, hands on his hips, and considered his options. One: he could leave her there and take the bed. He shook his head, rejecting that notion with barely a consideration. He was not going to take the only bed, and that was that.
Two: he could climb onto the couch with her. Also not an option, he realized. Though it would make his point, climbing into bed with a woman without her express consent violated his ethics. He wouldn’t want some stranger climbing into bed with him unannounced and uninvited, and he wasn’t about to do it to someone else.
Three: he could wake her up and make her move. It was clearly the most ethical option, as he wouldn’t need to touch her or engage with her physically, but it would also get him a fight. And he wasn’t in the mood.
Four: scoop her up, carry her to the bed, then take the coldest shower possible. Questionable, ethically speaking, as it would require laying hands on her while she was asleep. And if he knew her better, door number four would be his choice. But he didn’t like touching a woman when she hadn’t asked for it, so he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.
He sighed. Option number three was the clear winner, but man, he didn’t like it. Stalling, he looked around for his duffle bag, rolling his eyes when he saw she’d plunked it down on the bed. He picked it up and carried it into the full bath, then went back to stand next to the couch.
He cleared his throat. “Veronica.”
She didn’t stir.
“Veronica,” he repeated, louder this time. She wrinkled her nose, and there was a small pause in her breathing, then her expression smoothed out and she exhaled on a soft snore.
He stifled a snicker and reached down and poked his index finger into her shoulder. “Veronica, wake up.”
She frowned and swatted at his hand. “G’way. Sleeping.”
He nearly grinned. Fuck, she was cute. But she was in his bed, and he was tired. He poked her again. “Veronica, wake up.”
“Grumph,” she mumbled and rolled onto her back, her eyes still firmly shut.
He hissed out a breath. The oversized T-shirt was white, with a deep V-neck, and it was painfully obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra. He could see the dusky shadows of her nipples through the thin cotton, and the cooler night air was making them pucker.
Goddammit. He ground his teeth together and fixed his eyes on her face. “Veronica, wake up.”
She sighed, and her eyes fluttered open. “Why?”
“Because it’s time to go to bed,” he told her gruffly.
She blinked at him owlishly for a moment, then sat up. “Oh. Okay.”
Well, that was easy. He took a step back as she slithered off the couch, the sheet falling away when she stood. He gritted his teeth. The shirt was short, barely covering her crotch, and he’d been right about her thighs—round and firm and smooth, and she had cute, dimpled knees.
Cute knees? Jesus Christ, he was losing it.
She swayed and he reached out to steady her, careful to keep his hands on her shoulders. “Okay?”
She nodded slowly, her eyes hazy and heavy. She smiled at him. “I’m good. How’re you?”
“Great,” he replied gruffly.
“I have to go to bed now,” she informed him and started to sink back down onto the couch.
“No, no, no,” he countered and tightened his grip to keep her upright. “The bed is over there.”
“Oh.” She blinked twice, slowly, then smiled again. “Okay.”
He backed up when she started to walk, keeping one hand on her shoulder. She drifted around the sofa, wobbling a little on the stairs, then floated toward the bed. He let his hand fall away from her shoulders and stepped back, then stepped forward again when she stopped.
She pointed. “That’s not my bed.”
