“Amy? You awake?”
Huh. Why am I hearing Emmett’s voice? Must be dreaming…
“Some aspirin might make you feel better.”
I open one eye a crack, just enough to get a blurry image. I squint, trying to focus…
Holy shit. Emmett Lasker. In the flesh. Leaning forward in my armchair and holding out a bottle of water and a couple of aspirin.
And that’s not all. He’s wearing a new shirt and shorts, which means he must’ve gone home—or something—because I don’t have anything a guy can wear. But at the same time, I’m getting this sinking feeling he hasn’t gone anywhere. His hair is damp, like he just took a shower, and he’s looking extremely relaxed and at home in that chair.
I slowly—very slowly—look around. We’re definitely in my room. With Okumasama next to me, his head still covered by the samurai helmet I bought way back when, just for him.
I turn to look at Emmett and do my best to remember what happened yesterday after that embarrassing confrontation with Rick. It’s surprisingly hard to dredge up. Emmett bought me drinks… I sort of got tipsy… And then…
And then…
Nothing. It’s like somebody blew up that part of my memory. More likely it’s buried, lost in the pounding in my head.
“How…?” I start, then stop, trying to figure out which topic is least embarrassing. “You changed clothes.”
He looks down. “Oh. Yeah. From a gym bag I keep in my car. Always have a fresh set in there.”
Okay, so he has been here all night. And I’m… Yeah, I’m practically naked. I didn’t even put on a nightshirt. Oh my God, does this mean…?
I pull the sheet tighter around me and surreptitiously slide one hand down my body. Okay, at least I have panties on…but who the hell knows what really happened last night? I could’ve thrown myself at him. Or he could’ve taken out his most excellently shaped penis again, luring me with the promise of another super orgasm.
“What happened?” I blurt out. I need the facts before I react.
“Take these first.” He pushes the water and the pills at me.
Okay, he’s right about that. I down them and thank him.
“You’re welcome,” he says, sitting back.
A little personal distance. Good. “So. Um…” I clear my throat. “What happened?” Please don’t tell me I humiliated myself.
“Don’t you remember?” His tone says that every second of last night should be permanently etched in my memory.
Crap. “Um…not really?”
“You threw yourself at me.”
“Oh, I did not.” My denial is swift and firm, but inside I’m saying, Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!
He nods. “You did. Repeatedly. Called me hot, too. You also had what sounded like an especially filthy dream about me.”
Did I moan his name while sleeping? “Again?”
His eyebrows almost hit his hairline. “Just how many filthy dreams have you had about me?”
“None! I misspoke.”
“I doubt that. You have a tendency to say everything very frankly when you’ve been drinking.”
Holy shit. Did I really tell him about the dream? And did I have another one? But… That doesn’t add up. If I’d had another dirty dream, I should’ve woken up wet, even if I can’t remember it now. I was soaked yesterday.
“You also get very explicit,” he adds.