smelt as good. He felt as good.
A groan vibrated deep in her chest, echoed by Nick’s. Her nipples hardened and her pussy throbbed. Her eyes fluttered closed and she snaked her arms around his neck and buried her fingers in his hair…a fraction of a second before his lips slid from her mouth, down her chin and he crumpled to the ground again. Stone-cold unconscious once more.
Chapter Three
Nothing was in focus. Or coloured. Come to think of it, everything was white and fuzzy and bright. Way too bright. And way too fuzzy. And…muffled, like his head was stuffed with iridescent cotton wool.
Nick groaned, squinting and blinking at the brightness. His head hurt. Why did his head hurt? And where was he? Why could he smell disinfectant?
He rubbed at his eyes with his hands, letting out another groan when thick licks of pain lashed through his head. Jesus, what the fuck had happened? Where the hell was he?
Satchel.
Lauren.
The two words floated through his head, disconnected and confusing. Lauren? Lauren Robbins? Satchel? Why was he thinking of Lauren Rob—
It came back to Nick. All of it. In a smashing wave of colour, smell and bone-crunching touch—driving to Murriundah, to the small public school he’d once attended thirty-odd years ago, seeing his old girlfriend walking across the playground carrying the bag he’d given her, trotting up behind her with a nervous smile on his face, his heart thumping, saying her name…
“She hit me,” he uttered on a moan, rubbing at his face some more. “She hit me with her satchel.”
“You scared me.”
The soft feminine voice stroked over his ears and, eyes flinging open, Nick sat bolt upright.
Pain exploded in his head, sharp and white and blinding. The cotton wool turned to steel wool, making him wince. The fuzziness turned to blurring vertigo, making his stomach lurch, and then everything cleared and he was staring at Lauren Robbins perched on the side of the bed he was stretched out on.
Bed.
Lauren.
Those two words didn’t float through his head, disconnected and confusing, they positively rushed at each other, their intention undeniable. He was on a bed with Lauren Robbins. A soft bed.
She frowned at him, her deep-auburn eyebrows coming together above eyes a crystalline-blue. “Nick?”
A blur of sensations suddenly swirled through him—Lauren’s body pressed to his, her arms around his neck, her lips moving over his as his tongue stroked over hers. A kiss? Had he kissed her? Had she kissed him back? When?
He blinked. A wave of dizziness rolled over him, turning everything fuzzy again. The cotton wool in his head made the air sound like flesh scraping over a mic turned up to maximum. He licked at lips dry and tingling, raking an unsteady hand through his hair. “I feel like shit.”
“The life of a rock star?”
He couldn’t miss the edge in her voice. Lowering his hand, he gave her a lopsided smile, doing his best to ignore the way his heart thumped harder at the creamy perfection of her skin, the smattering of freckles on her cheeks. God, he’d loved those freckles. “If you mean a life of debauchery and drug use,” he said, keeping his own voice relaxed despite the rather enthusiastic blood flow making its way to wholly inappropriate parts of his body given the situation, “you’re only half correct. The last time a narcotic and I had anything to do with each other was the time you and I shared a joint behind Mrs. Forester’s garden shed.”
Lauren’s cheeks flushed pink heat and she let out a sigh, rolling her eyes. “Of course you would remember that.” She poked a finger at him. “Your father blamed me for that right up to the day your parents moved back to Newcastle.”
Nick laughed, the throb in his head echoing the hiccupping beat. “It was your fault. It was your cousin who gave it to us.”
“And your cousin who ratted us out to your dad.” She glared at him, her freckles a darker shade thanks to the blush still
Heidi Hunter, Bad Boy Team