“Besides, the bedhead is cute.” I part groan, part grimace as I try to adjust my cock that’s painfully constricted by the pants I still have on from last night.

“Oh,” she says with a start, her eyes wide as she glances down again and then back up. She scoots out of bed in a hurry. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—I should have thought about that. I didn’t—”

“Relax,” I say as I stand up and turn to adjust myself. That only makes matters worse as I know she’s watching. I glance over to her as I slide my hands out of the inside of the waistband and hope that works.

Oh yeah, she’s most definitely watching.

“It’s a cock. It’s morning. You’re . . .”—standing there with lacy boy shorts and hard nipples beneath my T-shirt. Fuck, man— “a woman,” I finally say and smile through the grimace. “There are some things a guy just can’t control.”

“Yes. Um.” She flits about the room like she seems to do when she gets nervous. But her eyes shift down to my cock again and back up.

No complaints there.

I hook my thumb over my shoulder toward the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower.” A cold one. “Jet’s on the tarmac. We can leave whenever you want.”

“Jet’s on the tarmac?”

“Yeah.” I wink. “The Gizmodos don’t fly commercial.”

“Oh.”

The shower is indeed cold—has to be—or I might risk marching back out there and showing Hendrix how hard my cock actually is. I’m tempted to jerk off, to relieve the ache, but think better of it.

You don’t jerk off to your fake wife, asshole.

Then again, would that make it a fake orgasm . . . and technically be okay?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Hendrix

When I don’t know what to do, I fidget. I move through the space and pick up or straighten things or do anything.

And right now, the image of his hard cock pressed against his pants and the scent of his soap in the air has me wanting things I shouldn’t want and thinking thoughts that are doing a number on my system.

“Paul put cracks in me, but I have a feeling that someone like you would break me. I don’t want to be broken, Jase.”

Why the hell would I say that to him? Admit that and open up to him?

I tear open a square, gold foil packet with my teeth and let the empty wrapper flutter to the ground.

THIS is why I don’t drink. Ever. Because I open my mouth and say things I shouldn’t.

Ugh.

I pull open the balcony door, tear open another packet and tuck its corner beneath an empty champagne bottle.

Why would I give him something to use against me?