Page 93 of Love Me Stalk Me
I wakeup slowly and painfully.
The first thing I notice is the throbbing behind my eyes, a persistent pounding that seems to match my heartbeat. The second is how dry my mouth is, like I spent the night gargling sand. The third is that I am very, very naked, the cool sheets sliding against bare skin as I shift.
Oh.
I blink at the ceiling, trying to get my bearings, but everything feels disorienting, like my brain is buffering. I roll over, groaning as my limbs protest, and that's when I realize the evidence of my bad decisions scattered around me.
1. My panties are missing, lost somewhere in the tangle of sheets.
2. My vibrator is under the covers, kicked down by my feet.
3. My phone is next to my head, completely dead, the black screen reflecting nothing.
Oh God.
What happened last night?
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force a memory, any memory, to the surface. Flashes come in pieces, disjointed and hazy. The taste of salt and tequila. The thump of music. Amanda's laugh, bright and reckless. My own voice, louder than usual. My fingers typing messages to Caleb?—
I jerk upright, the sudden movement sending pain shooting through my temples.
Oh, shit.
I grab my phone. The screen remains stubbornly black when I press the power button.
I stumble out of bed, still half-naked, half-hungover, and grab my charger, plugging it in. The red charging light blinks at meaccusingly. While I wait for the resurrection of my poor, unsuspecting phone, I pull on my satin robe from the bathroom and head toward the kitchen.
I stop short.
Because there is a very large man in my kitchen.
For a split second, panic grips me, my heart leaping into my throat. Intruder? Murderer? Kidnapper? My hungover brain cycles through threats, fight-or-flight instinct kicking in despite my foggy state.
But then my sleep-clouded brain clears, and I actually register who it is.
Not just any large man.
Callahan.
And Callahan is shirtless.
Oh.Oh.
I don't move.
I just stare at him, frozen in the doorway.
His back is to me, and holy fuck. The morning sunlight streaming through my kitchen window illuminates him like some kind of inked up Renaissance painting. I knew he had tattoos, but they're not just on his arms. They snake up over his shoulder blades, across the expanse of his back. It's a lot of black and gray work, intricate and sprawling, but I can't quite tell what all of it is from this distance. The designs shift as he moves, muscles rippling beneath inked skin.
All I know is it's hot.
And I am in trouble.
Because I don't know what happened last night.
Why is he here?
And why is he in my kitchen, making food, half naked?
