Scandalous - Michael B Jordan

chapter 3

oh my god, my head. it's pounding like i'm on a construction site and someone is relentlessly hammering on my skull. i can't remember a worse headache. why the fuck did i drink so much last night? and why the hell did i leave all the damn lights on?

i raise my arm to put my hand over my face, but halfway through the motion something catches. a metal clanking sound rattles the silence, and a second later, pain bites into my wrist. what the–
i open one eye.

i was fucking handcuffed? belated panic sets in, and i open both eyes, picking my head up. white sheets, fluffy pillows, thick white comforter, and a wall of glass looks out over sparkling turquoise waters. my head falls back and i inhale.

okay, i wasn't in jail. that was good. one less thing for my asshole agent to be pissed about. although–no, don't even think about it. jail would be bad, even if it did destroy my career and get me off this fucking merry-go-round. beds in jail wouldn't be this soft. i roll my head and inhale again. or smell this good.

because damn, it smells really good. but not hotel good. no bleach, no disinfectant, no sterile this-is-supposed-to-be-clean-but-they-are-still-used-sheets distinctive smell. i know that smell. i've known that smell for more years than i could count. after back-to-back movies for the past decade, i was intimate with hotel sheet smell. this wasn't that. this was–

oh no. no, no, no. my heart suddenly shoots up into my throat, as i slowly turn the other way. he was huge.

a giant beast of a man with unbelievably huge muscles is sleeping next to me. and holy fuck, he was mega fine. scary as hell looking, but oh-my-god fine fine. and apparently naked.

with the sheet only up to his waist, he has chiseled abs, a screen-worthy jawline, and strong cheekbones. he isn't just naked and beautiful, he's every bad decision i've never made but wished i had.

stupidly, i mentally run through every a-lister i know of, but i already know this guy isn't hollywood. he was too masculine. he has black hair that's practically shaved in a neat buzz cut that screamed military, not movies.

his chest expands with a long inhale, but he didn't open his eyes. "you're staring."

sleep rough and deep, his voice is more vibration than baritone, and it went straight between my legs.
i wanted to taste him. actually, i wanted to crawl on top of him and ride every ounce of sexual energy he was giving off while drowning in his scent and listening to his voice forever. and i didn't have sex, like ever.

alright, maybe that wasn't exactly true. but ages ago, sixteen to eighteen didn't count. i was young and stupid then and i'd spread my legs for a slimy prick of a co-star who'd fucked every broad he could get his hands on behind my back. since then? i've been smart. i've kept my legs closed. unless last night–god.

panicking, i look down. naked as the day i was born. i was gonna be really pissed if i've screwed him and didn't remember a single minute of it. but more, i was gonna be seriously pissed at myself. why the hell couldn't i remember a damn thing from last night?

"relax, baby." mistaking my silence, he gives me his sexy-as-hell voice again. "i didn't fuck you."

my nipples harden to the point of pain when he said fuck. "but you managed to handcuff me." i should be seriously annoyed about that. infuriated, actually. but all that was happening was a growing ache and pool of moisture between my legs that not only said i hadn't been well used last night, but screamed i needed to get my hormones under control and tell my libido to fuck off.

"i needed some sleep." he opens one gorgeously dark maroon eye and looks at me. "didn't want you running across south beach naked." he pauses. "again."