Griff cracked open a single eyelid. A bright stab of pain told him he’d made a grave mistake. He quickly shut his eyes again and put a hand over them, groaning.
Something had gone horribly wrong.
He needed a shave. He needed a bath. He might need to be sick. Attempts to summon any recollection of the previous evening resulted in another sharp slice of agony.
He tried to ignore the throb in his temples and focused on the tufted, plush surface under his back. It wasn’t his bed. Perhaps not even a bed at all. Was it just a trick of his nausea, or was the damned thing moving?
“Griff.” The voice came to him through a thick, murky haze. It was muffled, but unmistakably female.
God’s knees, Halford. The next time you decide to bed a woman after a months-long drought, at least stay sober enough to remember it afterward.
He cursed his stupidity. The epic duration of his celibacy was no doubt the reason he’d been tempted by … whoever she was. He had no idea of her name or her face. Just a vague impression of a feminine presence nearby. He inhaled and smelled perfume of an indeterminate, expensive sort.
Damn. He’d need jewels to get out of this, no doubt.
Something dull and pointed jabbed his side. “Wake up.”
Did he know that voice? Keeping one hand clapped over his eyes, he fumbled about with the other hand. He caught a handful of … Read More »