Tom smirks. “I get the feeling there’s a but.”
“We’re going back to my place tonight.”
Tiffy gives me another look. This one says:you’re playing with fire, and you know it.
Call it the heat. Call it the tropical night, call whatever you want. At this point, I don’t care. Destruction has never looked this good.
Tom leans back, dropping ice cubes into our cups, grinning like I just told him exactly what he wanted to hear.
“Sounds good,” he says, casual as hell.
We stay longer than planned, just talking and laughing like there’s no clock ticking. This whole time, I can feel the tension building.
It’s in the way he lets Tiffy talk, dropping the necessary “uhms,” “wow,” or “sounds wild” at the right moments.
While he listens, I catch him searching for contact the entire time.
When I rub my eyes, he takes it as his chance to ask if I’m tired, If I want to go.
And of course, I say yes.
Because I really,reallywant to take him to my place.
Chapter twenty-one
Tom
We’re driving through that endless terracotta landscape again.
Aloe, cacti, and nothing else in sight but the yellow glow of the moon and the silver sea of stars. It feels like we’re the only two people left awake on the island. Just him and me.
I start to recognize the curves in the backroad he takes after Santa Catalina. Within minutes, we’re back at his place.
I follow him inside, and man, I can’t believe how wrecked I feel. My mind’s already half asleep, muscles sore.
I step over a paint can and dodge a drill on the floor. The house feels different than it did this afternoon. It looks like a still life painting where a lot’s happening, and each object has its story.
I glance around at the unfinished walls, the open wiring like exposed nerves, and yeah, it’s obvious. He stopped midway through fixing this place. Put it all down. Walked away.
My best guess is that he got overwhelmed and now pretends all of this isn’t here.
I see it in the way he walks through the mess, not even looking at it, heading straight to the bedroom.
That’s where today decides to surprise me one more time.
The room is… done. White walls. Clean lines. Minimal, but not cold. It actually feels so him.
Built-in closets along one wall. There’s a shelf with crystals lined up so precisely, I swear he measured the distance between each one and the edge of the shelf with a ruler.
Same goes for the aloe plant on the windowsill and the candles on the side table.
In the center: a double bed. Made to perfection. Mint-green sheets folded so sharp I could cut my fingers on them. Or worse, my cock.
Not that it’s getting any action tonight aside from taking a wee.
I’m drained. Besides, I’ve already maxed out my flirt credits for the day.
And sure, he seems responsive to my advances. Let’s call it that, but I’m not an idiot. There’s only so much one person can take, and the last thing I want is for my somewhat persistent charm to push him the wrong way.
