Even before he opened his eyes, he’d assessed his surroundings and knew he wasn’t in his San Francisco penthouse. That didn’t surprise him since business kept him out-of-town more than not, particularly now. He became aware of a not-unpleasant smell, something earthy. Going by the cool air on his cheeks, he guessed that the window in whatever bedroom he was in was open. Sitting up, he swung his feet over to the side of the unfamiliar bed and stared down at his naked body. Yep, his cock was still in perfect operating condition, a little surprising given the stress of the last few months. The window was open, and through it he could hear a faint, not unpleasant sound—drumming, unless he was hung-over. He was never hung-over. Even on those rare occasions when he drank with abandon, he’d been blessed with a cast-iron stomach. As a result, when the business associates he wined and dined might wish they’d been shot and put out of their misery, he kicked any residual lethargy out of his system by going for a run.
