Pounding. That’s what exists right now. My eyes crack open, and a streak of sunlight stabs me in the eye. I moan and roll over, jerking my comforter over my head.
I swear the pounding in my head is audible. Confusion settles in as I realize that someone is pounding on my door.
“Go the fuck away.”
“Wake up, sunshine. We have to have our proper introduction, and it’s noon.”
The events of last night flash behind my closed eyes, and it feels like fire ants are pouring out of the top of my head and sweeping down my body in a painful wave. Lifting my comforter I look down, and I’m still in my boots and panties. Maybe if I just stay still, he’ll go away.
“I’m not going away, so you might as well get that sexy little ass out of bed. I brought coffee and donuts.”
Coffee? Donuts? That’s almost incentive enough to drag my tired ass out of bed. Almost, but not quite.
“Let's go, Rambo. I’m giving you thirty seconds, then I’m coming in.”
“FUUUUCCKKKK!”
I hear him chuckle, and I flip my comforter back. I jerk my boots off and throw on my big fluffy robe before stomping out into the living room. I unlock the door and fling it open. My jaw comes unhinged, and I give a valiant effort to work up the proper amount of lust for the shirtless god standing there.
My cheeks pink up and I close the door, slamming it in his face. I can’t do this today, seriously. I glance over, into the mirror next to the door, and want to cry. My bright red hair is sticking up all over the place. I grab a beanie and slide it on, ready to try this again. Opening the door, I try to channel my inner queen, but I stumble with as much grace as my tired, hungover body can manage as I slide down the porch column to sit down on the top step.
He hands me a donut and a tear leaks out when I see the bacon on top. Bacon makes everything better, and that goes for donuts as well. He hands me the coffee and sits next to me.
I give him the side-eye, looking at him as covertly as possible. He just sits there, looking out at the ocean view as he drinks his own nectar of the gods. Taking my own sip, I moan as the caffeinated deliciousness slides down my gullet.
In the daylight, he looks nothing like my husband Jason Momoa. He has sandy blond hair that’s shaved on the sides with the top long, flopping over to one side. His right arm is decorated with a multitude of bright tattoos. He has muscles upon muscles, with a nicely haired chest. His nose is fucked—broken way too many times—but sexy nonetheless. His mirrored aviators hide his eyes from me, and I thank God for that small mercy. He seems like the type to have pools for eyes, and I really can’t afford to drown in those right now.
“My name is Ali, by the way, or Alice. Whichever one you prefer.”
He leans back against the railing and gives me his full attention, which is disconcerting.
“My name is Luke.” He holds out his hand and I take it. His warm, calloused fingers slide over mine, and I clamp my lips shut. Moaning like a cat in heat would give away a lot more than I want to, so I lock that shit down.
He grins. Apparently, I’m not fooling anyone.
