Blindsided (Roman Holiday 3)

Roman had his plastic-man thing going again. That look was starting to do strange things to her. She wanted to stand up and dance over and twine her arms around his neck and whisper phrases in his ear that would make the color rise up his neck and heat his cheeks. To invite him to do things to her that Carmen would never allow and Roman would never, ever permit himself to want.

She wanted to see if she could make him want them, too.

It wasn’t a real impulse, of course. It was just the drums talking.

But the fantasy felt good. It pushed the rhythm down, down to the base of her. She closed her eyes, dreamy and hot and bothered and happy.

When she opened them, he was watching her, and she smiled at him, j

ust because she could.

Then she lowered her head and closed her eyes and pounded, pounded, pounded at the drum.

CHAPTER TWO

The headboard beat a relentless tattoo into the wall behind him.

“Oh! Oh, oh, yeah, yeah baby, yeah, like that. Just like that. Just like—oh!”

Roman sat up. Methodically, he began stripping the bedding off the futon.

He’d tried covering his ears with his palms and his head with the pillow, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. Mitzi and Kirk had been fucking since the dawn of time, and it was never going to end.

Kirk was a god. He was a machine. For the first hour, Roman had been—if not envious, at least mildly impressed. It was an accomplishment of sorts, having such a vigorous sex life at Kirk’s age. Kitty-cat sweatshirt aside, Mitzi was an attractive woman.

But God almighty, she made so much noise.

Roman piled the bedding on top of his suitcase and folded the futon into the frame, returning it to a lumpy-couch shape. He folded the sheets, the blanket, and made a neat stack.

Order restored—at least to this small corner of the living room. The rest of the place was still trashed from the party that had followed the drum circle. The party that had gone on for hours and hours, well into the night.

He’d been trying to block out the mess, telling himself it wasn’t his living room, wasn’t his house, wasn’t even his state.

No luck. Combined with the endless symphony of Kirk and Mitzi, the mess was more than he could take.

He’d thought about going out to sleep in the truck, but it was too buggy and too humid to try that without turning on the AC, and he didn’t want to risk running down the battery or running out of gas in the middle of Swampland. Getting his tires stuck was bad enough. He could just imagine the rusted-out hulk that used to be his Cadillac. Feral swamp children gleefully stripping the tires and hood ornament.

And even if he could have left, his foster father, Patrick, had trained him to be polite. All those childhood lessons made it next to impossible for Roman to leave without saying goodbye and thanking his hostess for her hospitality. He couldn’t thank his hostess without knocking on her bedroom door.

Obviously, out of the question.

In the kitchen, he found a garbage can under the sink. He returned to the living room and started picking up plates, stacking them into a pile and tossing all the food into the trash. He tried not to listen, but there was no way not to listen, and apparently no way to distract himself from making unwelcome comparisons.

To Carmen, who had never made that much noise in bed with him. Not once. Not ever.

To Ashley.

Ashley, with her hair loose and her legs crossed on the floor, skin glowing with heat, shirt dark under her arms. Smiling at everyone, swaying back and forth as she beat on that stupid drum.

Ashley, who’d pranced out of the bathroom and brushed her teeth while teasing him about all the invitations he’d received during the party. She’d been barely intelligible, her lips coated in blue foam, and he’d tried not to notice the way her pajama shorts hugged the curve of her ass, but failed.

Rather spectacularly.

She slept in the guest room, her bed separated from the futon in the living room by the width of a paneled wall.

He picked up casserole dishes and coffee mugs with dried maroon blotches at the bottom. Half-empty beer bottles. A glass that held something that looked like water and smelled like apple pie laced with ethanol. Appetizer plates sprinkled with frosted brown crumbs.

“Fuck me! God, yes, fuck me! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, yeah yeah yeah yeah, baby, just like that, oh, I’m gonna come, I’m coming, I’m—”