Page 85 of Love to Loathe Him

It’s hearing him lose control that tips me over the edge. A second wave of pleasure crashes as my pussy squeezes around his cock, milking every last drop out of him. And then I collapse on the bed, completely spent.

CHAPTER 26

Gemma

It must have beenthe rocking of the boat, the full-body sailing workout my arms and legs endured yesterday, the wine, or maybe the orgasms that left me utterly spent, because I wake up wondering where the hell I am.

Or maybe it was the squirting. That shit takes you to another dimension.

Holy shit. I slept with McLaren. My boss. I slept with the man I’ve been lusting after and loathing in equal measure for years now. And it was . . .

Incredible.

I shift under the covers and glance over at him. He didn’t exactly cuddle me after round three, but then again, there is nothing in his personality that suggests he’s a cuddler.

We collapsed back on the bed, catching our breath, and then bam! Next thing I know, it’s right now.

I check my watch. 5:03 a.m. The moonlight is doing a fantastic job of illuminating Liam’s beautiful face. Does he even realize how lucky he is genetically?

His breathing’s heavy, and the sheets have somehow migrated south, revealing everything. Even in sleep, Liam’s cock is massive. So thick it makes my mouth water just looking at it. Like it wascarved by a horny Roman goddess with a thing for well-endowed sailors.

I run a finger lightly over his forehead, moving a stray hair. He looks vulnerable like this.

I glance around the room I didn’t have time to take in last night, what with being preoccupied with more pressing matters.

Framed nautical charts on the wall, maybe of the places he’s been. A shelf filled with books that I bet aren’t just for show. Fancy whisky bottles and crystal tumblers. A luxurious leather armchair. A telescope by the window. What looks to be a high-end sound system. A picture of him and his brother Patrick sailing. A mixture of the two Liams.

I feel like I’m being offered a glimpse that no one else is. Which is stupid. I know he has no problem with the ladies.

He stirs and his hand flops over my belly, pulling me closer. He nuzzles into my neck, making my pulse quicken.

I need to get out of here. Last night was a wild ride with fisherman Liam, who’s probably halfway to Timbuktu by now, but billionaire banker Liam isn’t going anywhere. In fact, he and his employees, including his professional HR manager, are supposed to leave this work trip and be back in the office tomorrow. Who knows how he’ll react if he wakes up and finds me still here? It could go either way—round four or a swift kick to the curb.

In the harsh light of day, with my colleagues in the hotel, this whole thing seems like a bad idea. I need to sneak back to the hotel, check out, and then come back here. Who has to do the walk of shame in a full circle?

I creep out of bed and pull on my jeans, careful not to wake Liam. One foot in, one foot out, I’m doing the world’s most ungraceful hokey pokey when I hear shuffling outside the door. Jesus, is it a rat?

“Liam?” A voice sounds from outside the bedroom and I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat. Shit! Skipper Magee? At five in the fucking morning?

“You ready, lad?” he calls again, louder this time, and I realize with mounting horror that he’s getting closer.

Lad?

After the things he did to me last night, Liam McLaren doesnotfeel like a lad.

Oh my god, he’s not going to come into the bedroom, is he? I glance down at my bare tits and a wave of panic washes over me.

He knocks, and Liam stirs on the bed, mumbling something unintelligible. I hold my breath, my eyes darting around the room, looking for an escape route.

I could dive back into bed, but then the skipper would definitely see me.

The door handle starts to turn—oh sweet baby Jesus—and I do the only thing I can think of in my panicked state. I drop to the floor and roll under the bed, dragging my jeans with me.

I barely have time to stuff myself into the cramped space before the door creaks open and Skipper Magee’s dirty boots come clomping in.

Dirty doesn’t even begin to describe these monstrosities. They stop right in front of my face, giving me a front-row seat to every scuff, stain, and bit of crud caked on them.

And the smell? Bloody hell, it’s like dead fish and a fungal infection all mixed in. This is not how I pictured the morning after the night before.