Page 3 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar (Oops Baby #2)

“Shit,” Jett mutters against my lips before slanting his head and kissing me back. Kissing me so deep my toes curl in my Docs. “Holy shit , Tamsin.”

I let out another whimper, clawing like a wildcat at his leather vest. Trying to get him closer, trying to climb the sturdy cliff face of his body. Trying to commit every sensation, every little sound, every scrape of his stubble to memory.

That safe feeling is back. It makes me warm to my fingertips, despite the wind and the rain. It makes me reckless.

“Take me back,” I gasp against the rock star’s mouth. “Take me back somewhere.”

Jett Santana makes a low, pained noise, like I’ve just kicked him in the gut. He bends down a little, snags the back of my thighs, and lifts me against his chest. He doesn’t take his mouth away from mine, not even to say, “Hotel.”

My nod is frantic. “Uh-huh.”

Honestly, he could take me to an abandoned storage container and I’d be down. An actual hotel room with bed sheets and a shower sounds downright magical.

Jett Santana turns, cradling me against his chest, and strides out into the night.

* * *

Shortly before dawn, I wake with a jolt. For a long, dizzying moment, I don’t know where I am. In a strange room, by the looks of things, with unfamiliar bed sheets and the weight of a man’s body beside mine. There’s a telltale ache between my thighs.

Oh, god.

Horror claws at my throat, then I remember the VIP pass. The after party.

Jett Santana.

The horror fades, and all that’s left is numbness and misery.

Not because last night wasn’t freaking incredible , with Jett making me come so many times that I lost my voice. And not that he wasn’t a perfect gentleman, bringing me snacks and water throughout the night and fussing when I bled a little the first time we screwed.

I didn’t tell him I was a virgin. Just let him clean me up, then went in for round two.

It’s not the sort of thing you confess to the hot, older rock star who brought you back to his hotel room, you know? Because he’d probably freak out and feel guilty or some crap, and that’s so not what I wanted from my make-believe night.

Besides, I’d lied enough already. What was one more little fib for the pile?

The bed sheets rustle as I sit up, head pounding.

We barely drank anything last night, only a few sips each, but it turns out that staying up all night wrestling with a hot, muscly rock star really takes it out of a girl.

My throat is parched, and I squint against the weak light seeping around the edges of the curtains.

The room is ghostly in the gloom, with clothes strewn everywhere and spare pillows tossed onto the floor. The bathroom door hangs open, with more light coming through the window inside. The air smells like laundry detergent and warm bodies.

Gingerly, I sniff my armpit and wrinkle my nose.

God, I need a shower. A shower, clean clothes, and a breakfast burrito the size of my arm. But before that, I need to sneak out of this room without waking Jett Santana.

Misery pangs through me again.

Not fair. I don’t want to go.

Jett lies sprawled on his front, head turned against the pillow, one arm tossed overhead. The bed sheet is pulled way down, barely covering those dimples at the base of his spine, and his muscled back flexes as he sighs and shifts in his sleep.

Lips pressed together, I wait until he’s breathing deeply again. Staring at him. Wishing. Wanting.

But this whole night was a stolen experience, and one that could never last. My lies saw to that, didn’t they?

Besides, we’re from different worlds. And maybe Jett likes the fake Tamsin, the one who buys VIP passes to gigs and who travels around taking photos for magazines, but the real Tamsin is so much less impressive.

A broke runaway with no family worth speaking of, and no time or money for anything much in her life except work shifts unloading trucks. Even my makeup is borrowed.

Yeah, I’m nobody’s muse. And it’s time to get the hell out of dodge.

My heart hammers as I peel the sheets down and swing my legs out of bed.

The carpet is soft and thick, muffling my footsteps as I stand and pick my way across the room, bending down to snatch up my bra, my panties, my dress, my belt.

I dress silently, eyes fixed on the sleeping rock star—partly because I don’t want him to wake, and partly because I can’t bear to look away.

The way he touched me last night…

The things he murmured against my skin…

A lump forms in my throat, lodging there.

For a long moment, I’m not sure I can do it.

I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to walk away without saying goodbye.

Especially after everything we shared together, after everything I gave him, can I really just walk away without a word? What if he thinks I don’t care?

Chest aching, I step toward the bed. Maybe it doesn’t have to be weird. Maybe I can wake him up, play it off as a casual thing, steal one last kiss before I go.

And maybe he won’t let me leave so easily. Maybe he’ll sweep me into his arms and bury me in the pillows for one last time. Would that be so wrong?

I take another step toward the bed, and something crinkles beneath my boot. Glancing down, I grimace.

My VIP pass. The very first lie I told.

Gut churning, I step back toward the door instead.

I mean, Jett Santana is famous. He probably screws a different woman every night. When he wakes up, I doubt he’ll even remember my name.

Mind made up, I turn and hurry for the hotel room door.

It’s the right thing to do. I’m sure it is.