Then, pulling an extra blanket out of the closet, he headed over to the sofa in the main room of his suite and stripped out of his now-vomited-on clothing.

What a fucking disaster tonight had been. Nights like this were a good reminder of why he didn’t date.

***

Marjorie was dying.

That was the only possible explanation for how awful she felt. Death. Possibly hers, though her mouth tasted like something had crawled in there and died as well. She licked her dry lips, and immediately her stomach protested.

Oh. Oh, no.

She bolted up from the bed and ran for the closest door, barely making it before her stomach heaved up its contents. She puked for what felt like forever, crouching against the side of the toilet bowl, and whimpered when nothing else came up. God, this was awful. So awful. Her head felt like it had split open, and her entire body ached. Everything was vague and fuzzy. Was she sick? What was wrong with her?

The toilet felt nice against her cheek, though. She rested her face against the side of it for a moment longer, and then peered at the black lumps of clothing tossed on the floor that she’d just now noticed.

Men’s shoes. A belt. Slacks. A jacket.

Oh . . .

Oh dear.

Eyes wide with horror, Marjorie looked around at the bathroom. This . . . wasn’t hers. Her room was really nice, but this bathroom was bigger than hers, and someone had used the deluxe waterfall shower in the past few hours, and had discarded towels on the tile, something she never did.

Where was she?

Stumbling to her feet, Marjorie gazed at the bathroom counter. Shaving implements. Shaving?! She caught a look at herself in the mirror and moaned in horror. Her eye makeup was now under her eyes instead of above them, her hair was a disaster, and her face was a sickly shade. Her neckline had shifted, and one of her breasts was falling out of her dress, the other about to join it. Quickly, she fixed things. There were dried streaks around the corners of her mouth, and she hurriedly washed her face and smoothed her hair.

Then she threw up again, because her stomach hated all that moving.

As she clung to the toilet once more, she tried to recall exactly what had happened last night. It was a blur. She remembered going out with Rob. Sort of. And she remembered drinking a lot of wine to try to seem worldly to him. And she vaguely remembered a dance floor.

And puking. Lots and lots of puking.

Okay. Okay. She breathed deep to settle her stomach and tried to calm her racing mind. She’d clearly gotten drunk. And now she was back at his place. There had to be a logical reason for that. Did she sleep with him, then? Was she no longer a virgin? Good lord, had she had sex and couldn’t even remember it?

Her hand went under her skirt. Her panties were still there, in place. The crotch wasn’t even damp. Even her shoes were still on. All right. Probably no sex, then. She’d probably been too sick. The panic in her chest lessened and she spent a few more minutes with the toilet before her stomach felt comfortable enough for her to stand again.

She had to get back to her room. Pronto.

Marjorie tiptoed out of the bathroom and rubbed her eyes, looking around at the suite. It was luxurious, the size of the room probably bigger than her apartment at home. Thick carpet muffled her footsteps and she made the bed as best as she could, grabbed the ice bucket in case she got sick again, and then headed into the main living area of the suite.

As she opened the door, she spotted a big male body sprawled on the couch, a blanket on his hips—and little else. Rob slept, his hair tousled, his chest bare.

Oh, sweet mercy, he was pretty.

Unable to help herself, Marjorie drew closer to him. She couldn’t help staring. Any woman would. Rob had a gorgeous chest, all hard muscle. His pectorals were fuzzed with darker hair that trailed down to his belly button and continued below the blanket. His face was relaxed in sleep, a hint of beard shadow on his jaw. And his mouth, gosh. His mouth was a soft bow that seemed perfect for kissing his date.

She wondered if he’d kissed her last night. Her breath seemed to indicate no, but maybe he had before things went . . . south. She wondered how it went.

And she kept staring at the happy trail that went under that blanket.

He continued to sleep soundly, one arm across his chest, the other thrown back over his head. He wasn’t holding down the blanket. Not at all. And a terribly naughty thought occurred to her.

Biting her lip, Marjorie clutched the ice bucket in one hand. Her other reached out for the blanket itself. He wasn’t wearing a shirt while he slept, and the feet that poked out of the other end of the blanket were bare, too. Was he completely bare under the blanket?

Curiosity got the better of her and she leaned over him, watching to see if he stirred. But he was still fast asleep, so she lifted the blanket.

Rob was totally naked.

Oh . . . gosh. Just wow. So that was the first penis she’d ever seen outside of what was on television or the Internet. And it was kind of impressive. The length of him lay along one thigh, hard, the head a darker shade than the rest of his skin. She could see a few veins tracing the length, and followed them with her eyes down to the curls of his sex and his balls.

Huh.

She stared for a good, long minute more, mentally measuring him. Weren’t guys supposed to be a certain length? She forgot what the average was, but Rob was longer than her hand, unless she missed her guess. She thought about putting her hand next to his penis to compare the two, but she didn’t want to wake him. Reluctantly, she eased the blanket back down and then tiptoed away from his bed and out the door.

***

Well, well, well.

Rob forced himself to remain still, his breathing as even as possible, as Marjorie tiptoed out of his suite. He’d been awake ever since she’d crawled out of bed, but he hadn’t wanted to startle her, so he’d feigned sleep. She hadn’t had the slightest clue that he was awake. And she’d ogled him.

More importantly, she’d ogled his dick.

Once the door closed, he opened his eyes, a smile curving his mouth. He glanced under the blankets himself—his dick was hard—and getting harder by the minute—which should have clued any other woman in that he was awake. Not his virgin, though. She’d stared her fill, and then retreated.

He wondered what she thought of things.

Whistling, Rob tucked both hands behind his head and relaxed, rather pleased with this sudden turn of events. After last night’s disaster, he’d wondered if dating her was a bad call. As much as he’d wanted her, it was hard to come back from being puked on all night.

Still, he was feeling pretty happy about things this morning.

He’d give Marjorie a few hours to sleep off the worst of her hangover, and then he’d call her and ask her out for date number two. Someplace, he decided, with no alcohol.

Chapter Ten

Rob waited until after noon, and then he texted Marjorie’s phone.

You dead?

Her response came a few minutes later. Feel like it.

He laughed. Couldn’t help it. She wasn’t even pretending that she was fine, which was kind of adorable. He decided to skip the texting and called her instead.

“Mmmello?” Marjorie’s voice was husky, blurred with sleep.

“Glad to see you survived last night.” God damn, he sounded cheerful. Regular fucking sunshine right over here.

“Surviving is debatable,” she said. “My head feels like it wants to abdicate from the rest of my body.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you mix wine with the hard stuff.”