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But Dario hadn’t answered my call. A stranger had. I’d hung up without giving the man my name and had waited for Dario to call me back, to explain.
No call had come. And now I was in Ian’s apartment, which was a mistake. I had realized that the minute I stepped into it. He’d moved forward to kiss me, and I’d side-stepped the action. Now, I settled into the sofa and looked up at his ceiling.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized for the third time. I’d made a mess out of my attempt to end our fling. Lots of stammering and over explanations, none of which had mentioned Dario and all of which had put the blame solely on my fear of commitment.
“It’s okay. I get it.” He walked over and rested his hands on the back of the sofa, looking down on me. “It isn’t like you misled me. I’m the one who tried to change the rules on us.”
He was so freaking nice. Nice, and so completely different than Dario. When Ian looked at me, my chest didn’t ache. And Dario had the ability to decimate my self-control with just a look, to scatter my intentions with the crook of his mouth. If Dario had reached for me … side-stepping would have been useless in the face of our connection.
I waited until Ian straightened, then I sat up on the couch. I glanced over at my book bag, the canvas tote silent for the last hour. I hadn’t checked it during class, had forced myself to leave it in my bag during my drive to Ian’s. Now, I walked over and unzipped the front pocket, reaching in and pulling out my phone.
I unlocked it and frowned at the unfamiliar No Service alert on the display. I clicked on my texts. My email. My messenger.
“What’s wrong?” Ian asked.
My cellular network was completely gone, the words Verizon missing from the screen. How long ago had this happened? I thought about its silence during the last three hours. I had assumed that Dario hadn’t felt the need to call me back, but maybe he couldn’t. Or maybe … he was the cause of this.
I grabbed my book bag and pulled it over my shoulder. Glancing at the clock on Ian’s wall, I quickened my movements.
“Heading to work?”
“Yeah. Look…” I slid my palms into the back pockets of my jeans and wondered if a fourth apology was needed.
“Don’t worry about it.” He leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Just... know that I’m here if you change your mind.”
I won’t. I muted the words and gave him a half smile instead. He tossed my keys toward me and I caught them mid-air.
“Study for the final. You’ve got five days.”
I groaned. “Yes, sir.” I swung open the door and waved to him, grateful the end of the semester was so close.
I took the stairs down to my car. Checking my heart for damage, I could practically feel it beam back at me, lifting one artery in an enthusiastic high-five. Why couldn’t it be so resilient with Dario?
Twenty
I got to work early, but the back lot of The House was already full. Lance’s H1, Rick’s Mercedes, the house cars … and a Rolls that stuck out like a virgin in a strip club. I parked my car, stepped out, and eyed it.
The driver’s door opened and a three-hundred-pound navy suit nodded at me and opened the rear door, waiting expectantly for me to come over and get in. I glanced at Lloyd, who stood by the back door and lifted his chin to let me know that he had me covered.
Three weeks ago, I’d have balked. Asked questions, or just ignored the man and gone inside. But in my new life where I slept in strange penthouses and ate room service and was courted by powerful men … I obeyed. I ducked into the backseat, unsurprised to see Dario sitting there, his phone to his ear, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He patted the seat next to him and held a finger up to his mouth for me to stay quiet. The driver shut the door and I inhaled Dario’s seductive scent. Today, it was an expensive cocktail of something heady and sexual. Just a whiff of it, and I wanted to crawl over that seat and put his cock in my hand.
The thought gave me a shot of arousal, one so strong that I actually moved, crawling forward and kneeling before him, grateful for the roomy backseat. I ran my palms over his knees and up his thighs, the expensive fabric smooth under my hands. I squeezed, the muscles tensing under the touch, a hard iron of corded tendons and thick quads. He watched me, his eyes darkening, and just the look on his face—I grinned up at him and he didn’t respond, his eyes following my movements, his feet adjusting, legs spreading to give me more room.
