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I squint at him. “Worked.”
“Yeah, that thing you do for a living? To get money to eat?”
“Jase, dammit… You should stop.”
“What, eating?” He leans forward, his gaze finally turned on me, and his lips turn up in a smirk as he crawls over me. “You liked me eating you up, though, didn?
?t you?”
He’s shed his jacket, and he’s only wearing a silver tank top, his jacket discarded beside him. The tank top is ripped in places, and it molds to his strong chest, leaving little to the imagination. Taut muscles, tattoos, scars… all there to see, and he doesn’t seem to notice, or care.
His eyes are lined in black pencil, cat-like and mesmerizing. He knows it, too. He bends to my ear, and whispers, “You like it when I wear eyeliner, admit it.”
“I admit it.”
“It makes you hard.”
“Oh yeah.” And I’ll bet he can feel my cock thickening again. But then I notice something else. I lift a hand to his face. “You’re hurt.”
He jerks back, wipes the back of his hand over his brow. It comes away streaked with blood. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Jase—”
He rolls off the bed. “Gonna catch some shut-eye, if that’s okay with you.”
What the hell? “Wait.”
But he’s already walking out of the room, his jacket in one hand, the sleeves trailing on the floor.
I can’t get the blood on his face out of my mind. What happened? Did a client hit him? Was it Simon?
I catch up with him inside the living room. He’s standing still as if he’s forgotten what he’s doing here. It scares the fuck out of me.
“Hey, look.” Don’t push, Raine. Don’t you fucking push him before he’s ready. “Have you had dinner? I’ve got some pulled pork and slaw, and I swear it’s delicious.”
He looks sideways at me, and presses a hand to his stomach, but not before I hear it growl. I wonder if he ate all day, but I shut my mouth and wait.
He glances at the kitchen, and I can see indecision and hunger warring in his gaze, and fuck… his pride won’t let him say anything, will it?
“Come on.” I take his hand, and he lets me lead him to the kitchen, turning the lights on over the counter. I leave him at the small table and start taking the food out as he takes a seat. “I make a mean pulled pork sandwich. Just wait and see. Pickles?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
A quick glance shows him sitting there stiffly, his mouth pressed in a line, those normally expressive eyes blank.
Even when I put the plate in front of him and pull two beers from the fridge, he barely looks up. He murmurs a quick thanks and inhales the food, then gulps down the beer before I even manage to finish half of mine.
“Sandwich was that good, huh?” I ask, trying to break the ice.
“Yeah. I’m gonna turn in.”
He’s distracted, distant. Cold. Something’s seriously off. I mean, this is the guy who undressed me and sucked me off in the dark, and now he’s barely speaking to me.
“Okay. Good night.”
He makes no move to get up, though. He’s sitting there, hands in his lap, staring at nothing. A thin line of blood has run from his eyebrow down to his cheek, and is that a new bruise on his neck?
Probably realizing I’m staring at him, he finally moves, planting his hands on the table and pushing to his feet.
