Page 55 of The One Night Dash
She slaps her hands over her mouth, and I think it’s because she’s hiding her face, so I don’t see her laugh or swoon. Hell, I’m betting on both.
I lean in and give her clit another suck.
“No, no, no,” she says as she lightly kicks me away and rolls to her side and off the bed. “I think I’m gonna get sick.”
Well fuck, I did not see that situation on my Bingo card … ever.
She doesn’t answer me. Just sways forward, makes this awful sound, and before I can react?—
Warm splash.
Right on my pants. And my shoes.
I blink down at her, then at myself, then back at her. “Well, that’s … new.”
She groans, clutching her stomach.
“Okay, Pembrooke, let’s get you to the bathroom before you finish redecorating me.” I hook an arm around her waist, guiding her as quickly as I can to the bathroom. She’s light, and I’m half-hauling, half-dodging another wave of disaster.
We make it to the bathroom just in time. I kneel with her, grab a clip from the counter, and sweep her hair back, fingers fumbling like I’ve suddenly been cast ina makeover show.I twist, snap, and—miracle of miracles—her hair stays pinned.
“See?” I mutter as she leans over the toilet again. “Multitalented. Hockey, commercials, hairstyling in crisis situations.”
She doesn’t laugh. Just groans louder.
By the third round of retching, I’ve stripped out of my pants and shoes, both casualties beyond repair. Luckily, my boxers are unscathed. Score one for me.
After insisting she brush her teeth, she eventually slumps against the counter, cheek pressed flat to the cool marble with agiant sigh. Her eyes are closed, breathing soft and shallow, she’s already halfway to asleep.
I crouch, shaking my head. “This is exactly how I pictured tonight going. You in a robe, me in boxers, union not commenced.”
Her only response is a little snore.
I knewshe’d be mortified. Hell, I was counting down the seconds until it hit her.
She’s standing in the middle of my suite now, swimming in one of my button-downs, bare legs peeking out beneath the hem. Hair a little wild, face pale, but not nearly as wrecked as last night. And when her eyes lock on me—just out of the bathroom in nothing but red boxers covered in hockey sticks—her jaw drops.
Perfect.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, tugging the shirt tighter around herself.
I grin, not even pretending to be sorry. “Morning, Noelle. Sleep well?”
Her cheeks flame. “Why am I in your shirt?”
“Puke isn’t your color. And your room smelled like something died in there, so I threw my shirt on you when I carried you from there to here. And before you ask, yes, relocation was necessary.”
She looks like she wants the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Which, yeah, fair.
I cross the room and crouch enough to catch her eye. “Relax. It’s all good. I’ve taken harder hits on the ice.”
That gets me a glare, which is better than tears.
I stand, stretch, and let a grin tug at my mouth. “After my mouth was all over you.”
Her eyes widen.
“Yeah, right after you, uh …” I chuckle. “You?—”
