Page 39 of Holly Ever After

Somehow, I know I'm asleep and this is only a dream, but I don't want to leave.

Not yet.

But that damn buzzing won't stop.

My eyes snap open, my chest rising and falling frantically as my gaze darts around the room.

Oh.

My.

God.

I just had a sex dream...about Sean.

I grab the pillow next to me, press it to my face, and scream.

What is happening to me?

Am I ill?

With the heaviness still knotted in my belly, I grab my phone with a loud sigh. My head is pounding like it's a drum in a rock band. Squinting, I see a text from Jackie reminding me of the Christmas dress-up night at Molly's Bar later.

The idea of going out again makes me want to be sick.

I need a shower. I need to get dressed. I need food. But most of all, I need an orgasm, and I need to do it while imagining anybody but Sean Colson.

Reaching into my drawer for my trusty vibrator, I leave out a breath when it buzzes to life, and stare at it. “You can’t call me a good girl, but you’ll have to do.”

∞∞∞

Ten minutes later, I force myself out of bed and into the shower. It helps, a little. The steamy water loosens the knots in my muscles and the minty freshness of toothpaste cleanses the bad decisions of last night away. A bit.

Feeling marginally human again, I walk into my newly refurbished living room, still unable to believe how beautiful it turned out. Cozy, inviting—the place screams for a Christmas tree and some garland, maybe even a wreath. It's a testament to Sean's skills, the guy knows how to bring a house to life. Christmas decorations are going on my to-do list today.

Deciding a cup of coffee is my next step toward salvation, I head into the kitchen. That's when my heart almost stops.

Sean is there. Shirtless. Brewing coffee like he owns the place. He looks like a model in a Calvin Klein ad, if Calvin Klein models built houses and fixed things for a living. Thighs like tree trunks, a chiseled chest, and biceps that tell the tale of a man who knows hard labor. His chocolate brown hair is a tousled mess, making him look irresistibly sleepy and rugged.

“What are you doing here...in my kitchen...exposing yourself?” I finally manage to stutter out.

His laugh is a low rumble, both intimate and disarming. He pours coffee into a mug and hands it over. “Thought you might need this.”

I eye him skeptically as I take the cup. “Did you spit in this?”

He rolls his eyes, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. “No, only cream. The way you like it.”

“Um...thanks,” I say, still in mild shock. “But coffee doesn’t answer my question. What are you doing here? And why aren’t you wearing clothes?”

The smug bastard winks at me. “For the inspiration.”

I groan.

“You got drunk. I slept on the couch,” he explains.

“Were you listening when I told you I could take care of myself?”

He pinches my chin between his fingers and tips my head back, locking eyes with me. “Of course I was, Squirt. But you were also attempting to give a rendition ofBohemian Rhapsodywith incorrect lyrics. So, I thought it was safer to stay.”

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