Maid of Dishonor by Heidi Rice

felt limp and sated—she edged across the mattress, testing the tender spot between her thighs—and frankly rather sore.
    The heavy forearm tightened as a large hand cupped her breast and gave it a friendly squeeze. ‘Morning, sugar.’
    The husky murmur, heavy with sleep, had her shifting round to glance over her shoulder.
    â€˜You’re awake?’ With his eyes closed, his wavy hair delightfully rumpled, what looked like a two-day shadow on his jaw and his mobile mouth sporting the hint of a smile, it was hard to tell.
    One eyelid lifted, the cobalt-blue gleaming in the light from the bay. His lips twisted into the full megawatt smile. ‘Can’t you tell?’ His erection nudged her bottom.
    She laughed, a little nervously. ‘Forget it, Rhett. After the night we had, I’m not going to be operational for at least a week.’
    The warm palm strayed from her breast to curl over her hip and stroke. ‘You sure about that?’
    She wasn’t, not in the slightest, if the heat surging through her was anything to go by, but she didn’t plan to negotiate. Because where Carter was concerned, her will power came a very poor second to her libido. And unfortunately he knew it, from the wicked grin as the stroking hand migrated to her backside.
    Swiping his hand away, she flung the quilt back and bolted off the bed. ‘I have to get going.’ She checked the clock on his bedside table. ‘I’m meeting the Awesomes at a bridal boutique in Brooklyn at eleven for a bridesmaid’s fitting and I can’t be late.’
    â€˜Now who’s the spoilsport?’ He propped himself on the pillows.
    She scooped her now hopelessly wrinkled dress off the floor and held it over her nakedness, a little too aware of his patient watchful gaze as she hunted up the rest of her clothing.
    â€˜Do you mind if I use your shower?’ she asked, ignoring the sizzle in her breasts as he tucked a folded arm behind his head, apparently settling in to enjoy the show.
    â€˜Sure. You want company?’
    â€˜Better not,’ she said quickly as the sizzle went into overdrive and she grabbed her bra from its resting place hooked onto the corner of the room’s huge plasma TV. ‘I can’t imagine sharing a shower with you will be particularly time efficient.’ She spotted the remains of her Indian lace knickers and picked them off the satellite console. Heat flushed through her at the memory of Carter ripping them off her the night before.
    â€˜Damn it.’
    How on earth was she going to explain a complete absence of underwear to her pals in the changing room? It was already nine-fifty. She didn’t have time to get all the way back to her apartment in Red Hook. Maybe she could stop off at a department store on the way to the Manhattan Bridge Overpass District, where Amber’s boutique was situated? Or have a quiet word with Reese’s friend when she arrived? Did bridal boutiques sell emergency underwear?
    â€˜Will my sister be there?’
    She stared at Carter, momentarily confused by the question until he added, ‘Could you get her to give me a call? We need to set up a meet while I’m in town.’
    And then the stupidity of what she’d done hit her right between the eyes—like a cold hard slap, knocking the breath out of her lungs and making the back of her neck feel as if someone had yanked out all the small hairs.
    The remains of her knickers dropped from her numbed fingers.
    After six months of celibacy—and confining herself to the automative delights of Justin, her trusty vibrator—she’d come tumbling off the wagon with the one man guaranteed to screw up the friendship she’d spent most of the summer trying to repair.
    Not that she hadn’t considered this last night. Fleetingly, and through a haze of hormones.... But now, suddenly, it didn’t feel nearly so defensible. Of course it wasn’t any of