I see it happen. Her gaze catches on my morning bulge. Her cheeks turn pink instantly as she looks away.
I tug on my jeans and button my shirt, trying to pretend my body’s not reacting to every small movement she makes.
“Can I get you anything?” she asks, shifting from foot to foot.
“I have to head home,” I say. “Then the hospital. Then I need to check in with the construction site.”
She nods, worrying her bottom lip. “Is this going to be weird? With… everything I’m trying to figure out with Ryker and Jude?”
Jealousy flares sharp and ugly. I swallow it down. “It might be,” I admit. “But I actually want you to be happy. Despite what you think.”
She looks up at me, surprised.
“You deserve the best,” I continue. “Someone who shows up. Someone who stays. Someone who chooses you every day.” I lean in and kiss her cheek. “Thanks for letting me crash.”
I’m almost to the door when she says my name.
I turn.
She’s right there, close enough that I can smell her again. I don’t think. I just grab her and kiss her.
She melts instantly, body pressing into mine like it has been waiting. I lift her legs, and she wraps them around my waist without hesitation. I back us into the wall, kissing her like I’m starving.
When we pull apart, her scent is everywhere.
“Do you remember what you said last night?” she asks softly.
“I remember everything,” I say.
I kiss her again. I curse under my breath as my mouth finds her neck.
“I hope things work out with them,” I say against her skin. “But if they don’t… I want another chance.” I cup her cheek, study her face, and kiss her forehead. “Forever. Someday.”
Her breath shudders at my familiar promise. It’s been so long since either of us has uttered those words. “Dorian.”
I gather myself and step back before I lose my mind completely.
Then I leave.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ryker
The house is too quiet,my body too loud. My hands ache in a way that has nothing to do with old injuries and everything to do with adrenaline that has nowhere to go.
I’ve been up since five a.m. and already fucked my fist three times. I don’t have any more to give, literally and figuratively.
I pace the kitchen once, then twice, then stop and brace my palms on the counter like that might help.
It doesn’t.
I can’t use my fists anymore. Not like I used to back in high school. Not like the old days when anger had somewhere simple to land, so I joined a local wrestling club. When pain was clean and immediate and over fast.
That was how I always used to get rid of my jitters–well, until I discovered sex. That proved to be effective for a really long time.
Now the adrenaline just sits in my chest, looking for an exit.
Outside, the night is cold. Too cold for what I have in mind. The air bites even through the windows, frost edging the glass.
