Managing to keep from bolting on the spot, he did take the opportunity to inhale the scent of her hair now, fainter but still distinctly vanilla-laced orange. For the rest of his existence, the smell of Creamsicles would equate to sex. The best sex of his life, a little voice in his head insisted—or maybe that was coming directly from his dick, which was awake and starting to throb.

The temptation to lose himself in Sierra jabbed at him, but the need to make a clean escape was stronger. It was only a couple of hours till the time he’d wake up on Monday morning, and the thought of waking up together, going to work together was not a comfortable one.

Lucky thing he’d fallen asleep on the side of the bed closer to the door, but getting out without waking her up was going to take some effort.

His conscience surging again, he tried to tell himself he didn’t want to disturb her sleep, wanted to allow her the best rest possible because they had a labor-heavy day planned at the Draper site, but that was only part of the truth, and not the part driving his actions.

He was an asshole who didn’t know how to do more than casual sex. That was the truth. He’d never been motivated enough to try, had never had what he’d call a real relationship with a woman he’d cared about.

Moving his body a couple of inches to the right, he managed to slide out from under her hand. Her leg was more of an issue, but he went with the yank-the-bandage-off-quickly philosophy and turned on his right side, away from her, pausing for a few seconds to see if she stirred.

His heart pounded as he lay there, listening for a change in her breathing, knowing he was going to follow through with his escape one way or another. A leopard couldn’t change its spots.

Sierra was still, continued her even, barely audible breaths, so he sat up and bent down, feeling for his clothes, locating his phone and wallet, gathering everything in his arms. He’d dress in the bathroom. Less chance of bothering her.

Less chance of getting caught, asshole.

“Cole?”

He froze, bent over with his bare ass pointed to her, his hand outstretched toward his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

He straightened, searched for the right thing to say, or the rightest in the situation.

“Gotta feed Tito,” he said, and went ahead and picked up his shirt.

“Who’s Tito?”

“My cat.” He stood, having secured all his clothing and belongings and leaving Sierra’s shirts and leggings in a pile next to the nightstand.