But even crazier, she had actually stripped naked on her deck and told him to do the same.
Weirdly enough, it was the first time she’d actually relaxed since before the whole mess began with Reilly and Billy.
She now knew it took more than a glass of wine—or two extra-large glasses—to unwind.
It also took the company of a sexy biker/bounty hunter, who was also probably a player, along with a few hits off his joint.
Afterward, she had done the walk of shame across her great room and into her bedroom, flopped face first on her bed and couldn’t remember anything after that. But apparently sometime in the night, she’d gotten up to use the master bathroom, cleaned up, and set the alarm for that ungodly hour.
Normally, she’d be dragging at four in the morning. But this morning? She was, for the most part, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
Hmm.
She eyed up his truck key fob, which was on the counter near the door where she left it last night. She needed to grab it and get out while the getting was good.
Yes, that’s what she needed to do. Escape before being caught.
Yesterday morning was awkward as it was, this morning would be worse.
Way worse.
But instead of moving toward the door and snagging her key to freedom, she turned and headed toward the stairs leading up to the loft and spare bedrooms. She didn’t tell her feet to move in that direction, they just did.
With every step up those stairs, she heard stop, turn around, leave, on repeat in her head.
Don’t do this, Reese. It’s stupid.
Just like last night.
Last night was a mistake only made once. It could easily be forgotten. She could chalk it up to the wine she drank and the unknown effect the weed would have on her. She could apologize to him and ask he forget everything that happened.
She rolled her eyes at her own pipe dream.
He wasn’t going to forget. Hell no. He would hold it over her.
He thought he was irresistible.
Unfortunately, she’d proved him right.
And look at her now, creeping up the steps like Creepy McCreeper.
For what?
Simply to check to make sure he was okay since he was a guest in her house.
That was all.
Like a good host should.
She hit the loft at the top of the staircase and told herself it wasn’t too late to turn around. And when her hand was on the doorknob, she told herself this was wrong.
Wrong.
She turned the knob quietly and pushed the door open just enough to peek in.
So wrong...
Sooooo so...
Oh.
Damn, whispered through her mind.
Deacon Edwards, skip tracer, bail bondsman, bounty hunter and creator of orgasms, was sprawled out over the bed on his belly.
The comforter was in a pile on the floor in the corner of the room. The top sheet was pushed down to the bottom of the bed in a rumpled mess. And he had one arm curled over a sleeping white and brindle American Bulldog.
Had she secretly been hoping he’d slept naked?
No.
Noooo.
Even so, her disappointment was short-lived as the man only wore a pair of boxer briefs that hugged his ass perfectly. An ass that was pure perfection encased in black cotton.
His lightly furred thighs...
Heat swirled through her and she groaned...
About her behavior the night before. Not because of the sexy man practically naked in her bed.
His bed.
The spare bed.
Justice lifted his head and whined softly.
Shit!
She made a let’s-keep-this-between-us face at the dog and pressed a finger to her lips.
It was a dog! Would he understand that expression and hand signal?
Justice flopped his head back down with a groan.
Wait. Maybe he could.
She went back to her inspection.
Deacon’s dark blond hair was unbraided, and the loose, wavy mess covered his face. She had an urge to wake him up, if only to see what he looked like with it down.
Would he look better? Worse?
She did dig the Viking look. It fit him.
She grimaced at her own thought while studying the club’s colors inked into his back.
She didn’t know much about MCs. Only what she’d seen in the news, or on TV shows and movies. She knew they could be a rough bunch who caused trouble. And the ones she’d seen in photos of Sturgis, or Myrtle Beach Bike Week, or in articles about the Hells Angels, Pagans or Mongols, didn’t look anything like Deacon.
Maybe he was just an oddity amongst a bunch of beer-bellied, bushy-bearded bikers. He did have a business with a reputation to maintain, after all.
And she hadn’t seen him wear one of those leather jackets or denim vests she’d seen the bikers, who belonged to clubs, wear before. Maybe his club was more of a gentlemen’s club.
Not the stripper kind, but the sitting around playing poker, shooting the shit and smoking a stogie kind. Just substitute a joint for the cigar.
Okay, now she was living in some sort of fantasyland.