bedroom after a failed attempt to get laid. She felt a little pathetic about that, though the fact that Weston hadn’t rejected her buoyed her spirits a little.
Third, in her whole life, Molly had never experienced the chemistry she had with Weston English. Being with Dusty was nothing like the few stolen moments she’d just spent with Weston in the staircase and in his bed. Her nipples still stood erect against the lace of her bra and her panties were soaked. Every inch of skin felt sensitive and turned-on. She moaned softly, realizing that the chances of ever being with Weston again were next-to-none. He hadn’t asked for her number or made any indication that he wanted to see her again. It was completely possible that despite the truth, he thought she was a raging slut, in light of her behavior.
Whimpering a soft sound of protest, she took a deep breath through her nose and realized that she was surrounded by Weston’s scent. Letting herself fall back on the bed, she stared at the ceiling, feeling her racing heart finally begin to calm down. She grabbed his smooshed pillow and held it against her chest, rolling onto her side.
Despite their heat and chemistry, Molly had to admit that part of her—a very real and large part of her that just wasn’t being very assertive today—was relieved that she hadn’t slept with Weston. Would it have been amazing? Very likely. He was smart, gorgeous and mischievous, with a body to die for, but if she’d slept with him, she would have felt really, really cheap and dirty right about now. As it was, she wasn’t exactly proud of herself for looking like a first-class strumpet. It was no wonder he didn’t ask for her number.
“You just got dumped. You don’t need anyone asking you out,” she muttered. “Now, stop thinking about it.”
Sure. Right. Easy peasy.
Stop thinking about the best kisses, the hottest touches, the way she bucked off the bed and almost came from his mouth against her breast. God, what would it feel like to actually have sex with him if she was ready to orgasm through foreplay?
Forcing herself to stop molesting his pillow and sit up took effort, but taking a risk that the door by his desk was a bathroom, she sneaked inside for a moment to freshen up. His words: You’ve got bed-head were certainly accurate. Finding a small brush in her party purse, she raked it through her hair, looking at herself in the mirror.
Thanks for making it not-so-horrible, Molly Samaria McKenna…My very own Good Samaritan.
It bothered Molly to think that whatever had happened with Weston tonight was the whole beginning, middle, and end of the story. It bothered her that she’d acted so forward and he might think badly of her. It bothered her that they’d both gotten dumped within twenty-four hours, which meant that neither of them was anywhere near ready for someone new. But immediately, it bothered Molly that she still had a wedding reception to attend. Stag. Flicking off the bathroom light, she made her way back down to the festivities.
CHAPTER 5
Back at the bar forty-five minutes later, Weston found himself scanning the crowd for Molly, and realized that he had—in fact—bee-lined for the bar after the photos, hoping she’d be there.
“Wes,” said Alex, coming up behind him and clapping him on the back. “What’re you drinking?”
“Screw you,” answered Weston without glancing at his brother.
“Why’re you mad at Al?” asked Stratton, suddenly appearing out of nowhere.
“Yeah,” said Alex, grinning, daring Weston to admit the reason.
“Hey, Strat,” said Weston, turning to face Stratton and leaning his elbows back against the bar. “Question. You’re at a wedding. You and Val slip upstairs to your old room. Your shirt’s off, her dress is off, you’re both having a damn good time. You’re about to get it in…and Alex knocks on the door.”
“What’s the question?” asked Stratton.
“How bad do you pound
Third, in her whole life, Molly had never experienced the chemistry she had with Weston English. Being with Dusty was nothing like the few stolen moments she’d just spent with Weston in the staircase and in his bed. Her nipples still stood erect against the lace of her bra and her panties were soaked. Every inch of skin felt sensitive and turned-on. She moaned softly, realizing that the chances of ever being with Weston again were next-to-none. He hadn’t asked for her number or made any indication that he wanted to see her again. It was completely possible that despite the truth, he thought she was a raging slut, in light of her behavior.
Whimpering a soft sound of protest, she took a deep breath through her nose and realized that she was surrounded by Weston’s scent. Letting herself fall back on the bed, she stared at the ceiling, feeling her racing heart finally begin to calm down. She grabbed his smooshed pillow and held it against her chest, rolling onto her side.
Despite their heat and chemistry, Molly had to admit that part of her—a very real and large part of her that just wasn’t being very assertive today—was relieved that she hadn’t slept with Weston. Would it have been amazing? Very likely. He was smart, gorgeous and mischievous, with a body to die for, but if she’d slept with him, she would have felt really, really cheap and dirty right about now. As it was, she wasn’t exactly proud of herself for looking like a first-class strumpet. It was no wonder he didn’t ask for her number.
“You just got dumped. You don’t need anyone asking you out,” she muttered. “Now, stop thinking about it.”
Sure. Right. Easy peasy.
Stop thinking about the best kisses, the hottest touches, the way she bucked off the bed and almost came from his mouth against her breast. God, what would it feel like to actually have sex with him if she was ready to orgasm through foreplay?
Forcing herself to stop molesting his pillow and sit up took effort, but taking a risk that the door by his desk was a bathroom, she sneaked inside for a moment to freshen up. His words: You’ve got bed-head were certainly accurate. Finding a small brush in her party purse, she raked it through her hair, looking at herself in the mirror.
Thanks for making it not-so-horrible, Molly Samaria McKenna…My very own Good Samaritan.
It bothered Molly to think that whatever had happened with Weston tonight was the whole beginning, middle, and end of the story. It bothered her that she’d acted so forward and he might think badly of her. It bothered her that they’d both gotten dumped within twenty-four hours, which meant that neither of them was anywhere near ready for someone new. But immediately, it bothered Molly that she still had a wedding reception to attend. Stag. Flicking off the bathroom light, she made her way back down to the festivities.
CHAPTER 5
Back at the bar forty-five minutes later, Weston found himself scanning the crowd for Molly, and realized that he had—in fact—bee-lined for the bar after the photos, hoping she’d be there.
“Wes,” said Alex, coming up behind him and clapping him on the back. “What’re you drinking?”
“Screw you,” answered Weston without glancing at his brother.
“Why’re you mad at Al?” asked Stratton, suddenly appearing out of nowhere.
“Yeah,” said Alex, grinning, daring Weston to admit the reason.
“Hey, Strat,” said Weston, turning to face Stratton and leaning his elbows back against the bar. “Question. You’re at a wedding. You and Val slip upstairs to your old room. Your shirt’s off, her dress is off, you’re both having a damn good time. You’re about to get it in…and Alex knocks on the door.”
“What’s the question?” asked Stratton.
“How bad do you pound
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