Page 13 of One Night with the Werewolf
“Thank you,” I manage to say, turning over so we can look each other in the eyes. It barely registers that his are bright yellow again. “Best birthday ever.”
He snorts, and his thick arms bring me in closer as I snuggle between his pecs.
“I’m so glad,” he says quietly. “Happy Birthday, Emelia.”
I won’t lie. I don’t sleep great. I’m drunk as a skunk and thirsty, and I get up after what must only be a few hours, begging Roscoe for water. He stumbles to the kitchen to get me a glass, and then after I gulp it down, we retreat back to the bed where he pulls me into his arms without a second thought.
I’m awake again in just a few hours needing to pee, and then more water before I disappear into the blankets. I forgot how much it sucks having that much alcohol.
Finally, I sleep. I don’t know how long, but by the time I wake up, light is coming in the windows rather aggressively. The haze has faded and with it, my memory of what exactly I did last night.
I recognize the window, and then it all comes back. Going to Roscoe’s place. Having the most mind-blowing sex of my life.
With my ex-boyfriend’s dad.
Shit, fuck, hell. I fucked Jason’sdad. Mere hours after he broke up with me! Or I broke up with him.
I’m still not sure.
I can’t believe myself. Well, actually, glancing down at Roscoe’s Adonis-like body, maybe I do. Maybe I understand exactly what I was thinking last night. The way he held my hand when I needed it, and let me cry on his shirt, and made me feel like maybe I was lovable. Like maybe I matter. Like maybe I’m not as worthless as Jason made me think I was.
I wish this didn’t have to be a one-time thing, but I know what he’s going to say as soon as he wakes up. He’s going to say it because we both know it to be true—that this can’t happen.
It was one night. Not a mistake, not for me. But maybe it will be for him.
After a time of studying Roscoe’s sleeping face, his eyes drift open. He blinks them a few times, then his brows furrow.
“Emelia.”
I wonder if he remembers. Is it all a blurry haze? Or does he have sparks of memory like I do, snapshots of an experience beyond anything else in this lifetime?
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“Like my head is killing me,” I say, and it’s true that the low throbbing at the base of my skull has begun.
“Sorry.” He reaches up to touch my hair, then pauses, lowering his hand again. With a sigh, he extricates himself from me and sits up on the bed, ruffling his own mussed hair. He runs a hand down his face, and I hope he doesn’t regret it.
“Roscoe…” I begin.
“This can’t happen again.”
The words are firm and final. When I glance up at Roscoe, his green eyes are intense, his jaw set.
“Oh.” I knew that would be the case, but hearing it said out loud, with so much certainty, kind of hurts. “Yeah. You’re right.”
He nods, then gets out of bed facing the window. I only get a view of his ass as he starts putting on his boxer briefs and jeans, the same ones he wore yesterday. Looking away quickly, I probably shouldn’t be ogling him now that we’re… whatever we are. Not what we were last night.
Definitely not that anymore.
My stomach sinks as I get out of the bed, too, and find my clothes where they’re scattered across the floor. Roscoe isn’t messy at all, but there are a few socks out and an overflowing laundry hamper. Besides that, his room is pretty minimalistic.
Not that I should be taking the time to check it out. I’ll never see it again.
The silence hangs ugly and thick between us as I put on my clothes, and now fully dressed, Roscoe leads me through the open doorway, down the hall past the bathroom I used last night, into the living room. I pull out my phone hastily.
“I’ll call an Uber. Do you… do you want to share one so you can go back to the bar for your?—”
“No.”
