Louisa George - Enemies with Benefits

‘Right.’ He stretched a piece of tinsel along the floor. Hell, it wasn’t his problem; she wasn’t his problem. But he had to make sure she was safe. Way he saw it, he could probably do this tinsel line straight to her bedroom and she’d hardly notice. ‘Now, walk along this line and we’ll see what stage you’re at. Then you should definitely get some shut-eye.’

‘See. I can do this, no problemo .’ Her right foot rested on top of the tinsel, scarlet-painted toes pointed as if she were perfecting a gymnastic display on the barre. Left foot. Then the right flailed in mid-air, she wobbled, fell sideways and into his outstretched arms. She grabbed on to his shoulder and he got a whiff of clean citrus, shampoo possibly or shower gel. The woman smelt good. She smiled. ‘Oops again. You’re a good catcher, Isaac. Thank you for being here. You’re very kind. Very nice actually, I think. Underneath that standoffish mask. Very nice indeed. We could be friends, you know … You know a lot about me. More than anyone—’

‘Shh. Let’s concentrate on the walking thing.’ He placed a finger over her lips. Rapidly approaching stage four—he did not want to deal with that. ‘Then I think we should get you to bed.’

‘Absolutely … Is that … is that an offer?’ The heat in her body slammed against his. Her lips parted ever so slightly as she smiled.

Then closed again as he shook his head. ‘Thanks. But, no. If we were ever to do anything in bed, Poppy … which we won’t … I’d want you to be able to remember it in the morning.’

Sleeping with Poppy? Insane idea. But the thought lingered for just too long, and he hadn’t been with a woman in a while.

Absolutely not.

He gently removed her from his arm, and within a nanosecond of that touch his body zinged with a shot of pure feral desire. Here she was offering herself to him, this attractive grown-up woman—although he’d only just awoken to that fact. He could take her to bed and ease away some of the stresses of the past week. Show her the fun she so obviously craved.

Only, this was Poppy and there were a dozen or more reasons why that would be the worst damned idea he’d had in a long time. Not least the fact she was drunk, lonely and, until she’d uttered that last sentence, he would have sworn she hated his guts. He’d been there at her lowest, her weakest and worst moment, and somehow she’d never forgiven him.

Not that he’d ever cared. Impressing women past a flirty dalliance had never been on his agenda. He’d spent enough time watching too many marriages fail to contemplate one himself, and he wasn’t about to change that any time soon.

It had been a busy few days—he was tired, was all, having put every ounce of effort into getting the Paris bar up and running. He needed sleep. On his own. ‘Come on, let’s get you to the bedroom.’

‘No! Bathroom first. Teeth. Floss. Wee.’

‘Too much information, lady.’ For some reason his hand seemed to have slipped back round her waist. She wasn’t so drunk that she’d fall over, but he thought it best he should steady her as they walked towards the bathroom. Her head rested against his shoulder and she looked sweet. Smelt great. Felt … sexy as all hell. Was it possible to be jet-lagged from a one-hour flight? Because he couldn’t think of any other reason for this strange disorientation.

He tried to keep his eyes on the bathroom decor and not on Poppy’s backside as she dipped to rinse her toothbrush. She’d done a reasonable job painting the flat in bright, light colours. The bathroom still needed a little TLC as the plumbing was cranky at best but it was clean and tiled in muted stone. A large skylight shed light from above although now all he could see were glimpses of stars in a cloudy night sky.

What gave the room colour were the multi-hued bits of lace drying on the radiator on the far wall. Still unused to sharing a house with so many women, he wondered what the correct response should be to finding flimsy underwear wherever he looked. He doubted it should be the spike of interest, and trying to match the panties to the woman. Now he tried not to imagine Poppy in the red and black number.

Hey, he was a hot-blooded man after all.

After a few moments of brushing her teeth she looked at him through the reflection in the large mirror. ‘You know it’s a medical impossibility to become a virgin again once you’re not. Right?’

‘Uh-huh. You’re the doctor, not me. But I think it’s a given that once the seal is broken it can’t exactly be unbroken. And where are you going with this, Miss Einstein?’ Grabbing the towel, she dried her mouth, then turned to him.

‘I’m a fraud. I advise women every day about their sex lives and I don’t have one. How can I talk to them about sex when I don’t even remember what it’s like? I don’t want to be an almost-virgin when I die, Isaac, but I’m headed that way.’

Like he was the right guy to be having this conversation with. Especially when he was the only person in the universe who knew why she’d given up sex. Anger started to rise from nowhere. She’d run away from any kind of relationship ever since, when she could have been happy. Happier. ‘You really do need to sleep off that wine. There’s plenty of time to get a sex life and plenty of men who, I’m sure, would be willing to help you in your … dilemma.’

‘Would you?’ Those pretty painted toes took a step towards him.

‘Would I what?’

But instead of answering in words, she pressed her mouth against his. Pressed her body against his. Made little mewling sounds that activated every hot-blooded cell in his body. And, hell, he should have pulled away, put her straight to bed and left. But she tasted so damned good …

Someone was playing bongo drums in Poppy’s head. And someone else was stomping in her stomach. Her throat hurt. Her mouth was dry. She felt like hell.

Worse than hell.

After a couple of minutes stabilising herself she twisted in the sheets about to sit up but her foot collided against something warm. Something large. In her bed. Her eyelids shot open and she managed to stifle the scream in her throat, holding her breath as she tried to make sense of it. Her heart thumped in conjunction with the annoying beat in her head as her toes gingerly tested the object.

A leg. Human. Hairy.

What. The. Hell?

She closed her eyes again until her stomach stopped churning. There was a man in her bed.

Isaac?

It took all of her strength to turn over quietly so as not to waken him up. Yes—same hair, same smell. She clamped her eyes closed again.

Isaac.

A bare leg. Two bare legs. She felt down her front … no cosy pink flannelette pyjamas, but a skimpy silk cami top? No PJ bottoms, but matching silk and lace French knickers? Lara’s expensive design—for best times only. What in hell had she done?

Please no.

Surely not?

Surely, surely not? She’d spent the night with a man. With Isaac. First time in eight long years and she couldn’t even remember it?

The vodka and Coke she’d had at the pub before she came home she easily remembered. And … ugh … the red wine gifts from her clients. Bile rose to her throat. She was never ever drinking again. Fuzzy flickering images of Isaac arriving while she was putting up the tree gradually came into focus. But how had they gone from that, to … this?

But oh, oh, God … she suddenly remembered kissing him in the bathroom. Remembered how she’d felt bold and brave and very sexy. And how he’d tasted so nice, his kiss so tender … Even now she could smell his scent, firing flashes of heat through her belly.

‘Sleeping Beauty finally wakes up.’ He turned, naked shoulders peeking out from her sheets, sat up, eyes as bright as the daylight splicing through her curtains. His hair was mussed up and he looked devastatingly hot. ‘Sleep well? Eventually?’