Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 26

It must have been the rocking of the boat, the full-body sailing workout my arms and legs endured yesterday, the wine, or maybe the orgasms that left me utterly spent, because I wake up wondering where the hell I am.

Or maybe it was the squirting. That shit takes you to another dimension.

Holy shit. I slept with McLaren. My boss. I slept with the man I’ve been lusting after and loathing in equal measure for years now. And it was . . .

Incredible.

I shift under the covers and glance over at him. He didn’t exactly cuddle me after round three, but then again, there is nothing in his personality that suggests he’s a cuddler.

We collapsed back on the bed, catching our breath, and then bam! Next thing I know, it’s right now.

I check my watch. 5:03 a.m. The moonlight is doing a fantastic job of illuminating Liam’s beautiful face. Does he even realize how lucky he is genetically?

His breathing’s heavy, and the sheets have somehow migrated south, revealing everything. Even in sleep, Liam’s cock is massive. So thick it makes my mouth water just looking at it. Like it was carved by a horny Roman goddess with a thing for well-endowed sailors.

I run a finger lightly over his forehead, moving a stray hair. He looks vulnerable like this.

I glance around the room I didn’t have time to take in last night, what with being preoccupied with more pressing matters.

Framed nautical charts on the wall, maybe of the places he’s been. A shelf filled with books that I bet aren’t just for show. Fancy whisky bottles and crystal tumblers. A luxurious leather armchair. A telescope by the window. What looks to be a high-end sound system. A picture of him and his brother Patrick sailing. A mixture of the two Liams.

I feel like I’m being offered a glimpse that no one else is. Which is stupid. I know he has no problem with the ladies.

He stirs and his hand flops over my belly, pulling me closer. He nuzzles into my neck, making my pulse quicken.

I need to get out of here. Last night was a wild ride with fisherman Liam, who’s probably halfway to Timbuktu by now, but billionaire banker Liam isn’t going anywhere. In fact, he and his employees, including his professional HR manager, are supposed to leave this work trip and be back in the office tomorrow. Who knows how he’ll react if he wakes up and finds me still here? It could go either way—round four or a swift kick to the curb.

In the harsh light of day, with my colleagues in the hotel, this whole thing seems like a bad idea. I need to sneak back to the hotel, check out, and then come back here. Who has to do the walk of shame in a full circle?

I creep out of bed and pull on my jeans, careful not to wake Liam. One foot in, one foot out, I’m doing the world’s most ungraceful hokey pokey when I hear shuffling outside the door. Jesus, is it a rat?

“Liam?” A voice sounds from outside the bedroom and I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat. Shit! Skipper Magee? At five in the fucking morning?

“You ready, lad?” he calls again, louder this time, and I realize with mounting horror that he’s getting closer.

Lad?

After the things he did to me last night, Liam McLaren does not feel like a lad.

Oh my god, he’s not going to come into the bedroom, is he? I glance down at my bare tits and a wave of panic washes over me.

He knocks, and Liam stirs on the bed, mumbling something unintelligible. I hold my breath, my eyes darting around the room, looking for an escape route.

I could dive back into bed, but then the skipper would definitely see me.

The door handle starts to turn—oh sweet baby Jesus—and I do the only thing I can think of in my panicked state. I drop to the floor and roll under the bed, dragging my jeans with me.

I barely have time to stuff myself into the cramped space before the door creaks open and Skipper Magee’s dirty boots come clomping in.

Dirty doesn’t even begin to describe these monstrosities. They stop right in front of my face, giving me a front-row seat to every scuff, stain, and bit of crud caked on them.

And the smell? Bloody hell, it’s like dead fish and a fungal infection all mixed in. This is not how I pictured the morning after the night before.

I clap a hand over my mouth and nose to muffle my breathing and block out the stench. I’m closer to his feet than his podiatrist, for fuck’s sake. Has this man not heard of personal hygiene? Or personal space?

My pulse spikes. What’s that burning smell? Please don’t let it be his socks.

“Liam, the crossing’s choppy,” Skipper Magee grumbles. “Bit of an unexpected storm coming in.” His boots are so close now I could reach out and lick them. Not that I would ever, ever want to do that.

“Yeah?” Liam’s voice is rough with sleep.

The bed creaks above me as he shifts, and I squeeze my eyes shut, silently willing the skipper to leave. My heart is beating so loudly. I can’t believe I’ve gotten myself into this mortifying situation.

“You go up and get that crew soon, all right?” Skipper Magee says, and I swear, I can feel his eyes boring through the bed, like he’s seeing through the mattress to the crew member below.

Liam just grunts in acknowledgment. The bed creaks again as he presumably rolls over, and I can only imagine the view Skipper Magee is getting right now.

This is a pretty weird situation for all of us, but it seems like I’m the only one who’s embarrassed.

Liam must think I’ve left. Little does he know, I’m right here, my bare tits pressed against the cold floor like I’m trying to make a plaster cast of them, listening to him chat with Skipper fucking Magee.

Ash falls beside the bed, and I realize the skipper is smoking. This man is putting me off cigarettes. Might even give up my precious one-a-day habit when I get back home. He makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a snort and Winnie hacking up a particularly nasty hairball. Thankfully, he turns and walks toward the door, his boots making a squelching sound.

I hold my breath, partly to avoid making any noise and partly because inhaling too deeply right now might kill me.

Just as I’m about to let out a sigh of relief, Skipper Magee pauses at the door.

“Liam, there’s a lassie under your bed.”

“Huh?” Liam sounds genuinely confused and I feel him sit up, the bed creaking above me. Oh, bloody hell. “Oh. Uh, that’s where I keep them.”

Ha ha, very funny. Real comedian.

Skipper Magee chuckles and finally, blessedly, leaves the room.

Liam is silent for a moment, and then: “Well, that’s a first for me. Women hiding under my bed.” I feel him shift and get off the bed.

I awkwardly shuffle out, feeling like a complete moron.

He looks at me with a raised brow, but I don’t miss the way his eyes travel down to my chest, taking in my state of undress. He’s still stark naked, his glorious body on full display. I force myself not to stare at his cock.

“He came barreling into your room at five in the morning,” I snap, feeling the need to defend myself. “I panicked, okay? I didn’t want him to know it was me.”

I grab my bra and T-shirt from where I discarded them on the chair after I insisted Liam go up and get them between rounds two and three. I hastily pull them on. I’m pretty sure my bra is on inside out, but at this point, I couldn’t care less.

“You smell like me,” Liam remarks, his voice matter-of-fact, as if he’s discussing sailing weather, not the fact that we just spent the night . . . doing what we did. “There’s a shower if you need it.”

“I’m fine,” I snap, fumbling with my clothes. “I’m just going to get out of here.”

“Gemma.” He puts a hand on my arm. His eyes are hard, unreadable. “It’s fine. We’re both adults. No need for embarrassment.”

I grab my shoes, not even bothering to put them on. I just want to get the hell off this boat and away from Liam.

Billionaire banker Liam is back in full force, and fisherman Liam is nowhere to be seen.

My gaze cuts over to Gemma grappling with the sail line, her jerky movements betraying the tension vibrating through her. Ever since this morning, she’s been avoiding me at every turn.

The team’s scattered across the boats in a half-assed, let’s-just-get-home mess, leaving me with the joy of babysitting the most hungover of the lot.

“Need a hand?” I call out, my voice carrying over the wind.

“I’ve got it!” she snaps, yanking futilely at the line.

I grit my teeth, already moving across the deck to intervene regardless of her stubbornness. Because it’s painfully clear she doesn’t have a damn thing under control.

Before I can reach her, the sheet slips through Gemma’s whitened knuckles. The boom swings violently, nearly catching Robbie in the face. “Whoa! Watch it!” he yelps, ducking just in time.

“I’m so sorry.” Gemma stumbles, grabbing the nearest stay to keep her balance.

“No harm done.” Robbie waves it off with a nervous chuckle.

I’m not laughing though. “What the hell was that? You could’ve seriously injured him.”

Her cheeks flush as she looks at me, salt spray misting her face. “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

“I know it was an accident.” My jaw clenches as I grab the sheet, bringing the jib under control. “But you refused my help when you clearly couldn’t handle it. That’s unacceptable out here.”

Her eyes flash but she swallows tightly and gives a terse nod, the wind whipping tendrils of red hair around her stubborn pretty face.

She’s struggling to keep her emotions in check after last night. Gemma let whatever is going on between us bleed into the job, compromising safety. And I won’t stand for that.

Satisfied for now that my point landed, I drag my focus back to the rigging, where it should be. But I can’t resist another glance. Her hair is wild from the sea breeze, framing those stunning features like some gorgeous, untamed mermaid beckoning me against my better judgment.

The flush dusting her cheeks from exertion has something twisting low in my gut. I grit my teeth, gripping the rigging ropes until they dig into my palms.

“Eyes up, McLaren.” The skipper’s shout snaps me out of it. “Stop staring at your pretty lady and focus on the damn job.”

Some of the crew chuckle, but the Ashbury Thornton staff nearby keep their reactions in check, just watching me with raised eyebrows. My jaw tightens as Gemma tries—and fails—to mask her embarrassment with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Your pretty lady, huh?” one of the guys ribs with a smirk. “Didn’t realize she was yours, boss.”

“If anyone’s the pretty one here, it’s Robbie,” she quips. But I catch the moment her smile falters, her eyes briefly meeting mine before looking away.

With a vicious yank, I haul the sail line taut. This is exactly why I keep business and pleasure separate—to avoid messy complications that invite others’ scrutiny into my private life.