Read Online Beached with the Bad Boy (Bad Boys on Holiday #3) by Sylvia Pierce - Free Book Online

ground.
    “Um, that she’s reliant on men?”
    “Before that.”
    “She’ll learn how to rescue herself eventually?”
    “Yes. Yes!” Trick bolted into the living room and grabbed his pen and notebook, flipping to the first blank page.
    Rescue yourself, he wrote, humming the melody from the song he’d been working on. No way out but a lifeline from your soul.. Baby, I can’t follow…
    The song was about a woman trapped in a life she hated, using men to try to find a way out. Then some poor dude falls in love with her, but she can’t love him back, because she can’t see that the only way out is to fix her own shit. He’d known what he was trying to say, but couldn’t nail it down. He’d been trying to encapsulate this for a month, unable to find the words, the symbolism, the feeling behind it.
    Rescue yourself.
    Yeah, he still had a lot to do, a lot more lyrics and layers to add, but those two little words… that was it. The missing piece. The climactic moment in the story he’d been so desperately trying to tell.
    Now all he had to do was get there. An uphill climb, but a destination nevertheless. An end game.
    And he owed it all to the hot-ass, freckle-faced, insightful, intelligent roommate from hell.
    He tossed the notebook and pen on the coffee table and rejoined Layla in the dining room, feeling lighter than he had in months.
    She’d already cleared the table, and now she leaned against the wall, arms folded casually over her chest, her baggy sweat pants hanging from her body, lips curved in a sexy smile.
    “Call from the muse?” she teased.
    “Call from you. Sunshine? You are a goddamn genius.” Without thinking, Trick cupped her face in his hands and pulled her close, pressing his mouth to hers.
    Briefly, he registered her surprise, but after that there was no hesitation, no resistance. She melted easily into the kiss, her lips parting at the gentle slide of his tongue, welcoming him in. She tasted like salt from the French fires they’d shared, her mouth warm and wet and delicious, the feel of her velvet-soft tongue driving him wild.
    Trick backed her up against the wall, pinning her with his strong body. He pulled back slightly, biting her lower lip, unleashing a soft little moan that called straight to his dick. She uncrossed her arms and slid her hands inside his T-shirt, tracing the ridges of his abs, his ribs, his chest. God, her touch was so warm and perfect. So fucking perfect.
    He wanted her. All of her. Right there on the dining room table.
    Until she pulled away.
    Layla broke their kiss, turning away from him as she slid her hands out from inside his shirt.
    He backed off immediately, giving her some space.
    Layla closed her eyes, bringing her fingers to her swollen lips, refusing to look at him.
    Smooth move, fuckface.
    “Sorry, I—” Trick said, at the same time that Layla said, “We should probably just—”
    “Yeah,” he said. “No, I mean, definitely. Right.”
    It was killing him that she wouldn’t look at him, that he couldn’t see her eyes, couldn’t read her feelings. Was she upset? Surprised? Cautious? Pissed? Some or all of the above?
    He shoved a hand through his hair, searching for the right words to fix whatever had just imploded. But before he could say anything, she was sliding toward the hallway, obviously desperate to get back to her room.
    Away from that crazy kiss.
    Away from him.
    “Shit, Layla. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
    “No, it’s good. You’re good.” She was walking backward down the hallway now, her smile forced, her voice high and tight. “Thanks for the kiss— snack , I mean. The snack. You know, the fries. Good night!”
    The bedroom door slammed, followed by her muffled apology. Then a momentary silence, quickly chased away by the deafening roar of the sea.
    Jesus.
    Trick turned off the lights and headed back to his couch, but the idea of sleep was ludicrous. All he could think about now was Layla. Her soft, wet mouth. Her eyes, wide