Craving The Player (Amateurs In Love Book 1)(11)
Braden jostles beside me, pushing the blankets down subconsciously and exposing the hauntingly mesmerizing eight pack to my greedy eyes. I can almost feel his gentle touch running along my body before I mentally curse myself out. No. Just no.
Eying the room, I spot my dress lying across his dresser, my panties somehow looped around the bedroom door handle, and both shoes lying on opposite sides of the small room. He doesn't lack finesse, that's for sure. Or maybe that was all me. At this point, I can’t be sure. I seemed to have become a different person last night. One with no inhibition or fears. Just a pair of wet panties and a one track mind focused solely on the giant God of a man rubbing against me and dancing along to a thumping beat without tripping over myself.
I want to shove my palm against my forehead at the memory of the arrogant dick parading around outside of the club like he owned the damn place before eyeing me up like a cat to a canary. My anger grows into a full blown punching attack in my gut when I remember how riled up it made me to have that same man pressing his dick against my ass on the dance floor, and how quickly I had fallen under his lust trap. Jesus, Sierra. I wasted no time in practically dry humping him on the way outside and letting him do all sorts of things to me in a cab. A cab! Heat crawls up my neck and I chomp down on the inside of my cheek to keep from grumbling self-deprecating insults under my breath.
I use my free hand to peel Braden’s fingers from my skin and inhale sharply when his arm topples towards the mattress. He doesn’t stir any further, just mumbles something incoherent under his breath and buries his head further into his black pillow case.
I slip from underneath the covers and sigh as the heat that was once suffocating my body is replaced with a light, cold breeze flowing in from the slightly cracked window across the room. I collect my clothes and get dressed quickly, not attempting to hide my shame as I fist the straps of my shoes and open the door. Softly shutting the creaky wood behind me, I wait for the small click and drop my hand.
"Made it," I whisper, relieved.
"Ah, you must be the owner of the voice I had the pleasure of hearing all night long," a rough voice chides from behind me. There’s not even a hint of annoyance in the statement, only utter amusement. I grow confused.
I spin around and gasp, a sweaty palm moving to rest against my throat. My shoes fall to the floor before bouncing a few feet away from me and stopping with a clunk. The smug look covering the man’s impressively well-carved features is not enough to hide his shit attitude as he eyes me curiously. His low riding boxer shorts remain the only piece of clothing covering his tan skin as he crosses his arms and lifts a thick, confident brow.
My cheeks heat in an instant and I distract myself by collecting my shoes again before I pull my dirty dress down as far as I can stretch it, not wanting to flash him. "Uh, yeah. I was just leaving.” My words are rushed and almost . . . squeaky? I nearly sprint to the front door.
"You're not going to tell me your name at least? I think you owe me that after you kept me from receiving my proper beauty sleep. Now look at me, my looks are faded,” he teases with an exaggerated pout. A large hand runs down his obvious six-pack. He’s not as muscular as Braden, but I would have been attracted to him regardless. He’s a handsome guy.
"Are you brothers or something?" I ask, not sure why I’m interested. Would it matter if they were?
"Hell no. Not in the ethical sense, at least. I'm Clayton, your bed buddy’s better looking best friend,” he says, shoulders pulled back and mouth quirked.
"Clayton and Braden, clever," I snort. Half squatting, half bending, I put on my shoes.
"Definitely," he replies, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "So, your name?"
"Why does it matter? You'll never see me again."
"Just curious.” He shrugs, openly checking me out. I want to reach down and cover my breasts, knowing how open they are for viewing in this dress, but he looks away before I have the chance. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
"Sierra." I roll my eyes. "Now, can I leave?"
"Sierra, right. I heard that a few times last night."
I narrow my eyes and place my hand on the doorknob, squeezing. "You knew? Then why bother asking in the first place?"
"Double checking," he chuckles, a dimpled smile beaming back at me.
"Great," I groan. "Well, if there isn’t anything else, I’ll be leaving."
"See ya, sweetheart." He waves me off with a mock salute before I'm walking out the door.
I’m not sure I’m a big fan of this Clayton guy. But then again, I’m sure that I’m not a fan of Braden either.
"It was mortifying, Soph. You should have seen the arrogant look on his face when he saw me." I continue ranting to my best friend, wrapping my hair around my finger as I lean back in one of her patio chairs later that day.
"He sounds kind of hot.” She takes a big sip of her lemonade, nearly finishing it off in one go.
"Sophie,” I reprimand her.
"What? He was, wasn't he? You have to help me out here. Last night was one big cyclone of blurred figures for me.”
"Well yeah," I scoff, incredulous. "Not as hot as Braden, though. Not by a long shot." An array of dirty thoughts—or more so memories—infiltrate my scattered brain before I quickly shake them away.