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“Already scheming again?” Bash accused fondly. He flopped down on the bed beside me, still breathless, eyes closed.
Could you scheme about telling the truth? I didn’t think so.
“No scheming. I… I like you,” I blurted.
He chuckled. “Believe it or not, I figured that out, sweetheart. Somewhere between ‘want to come’ and ‘oh my god.’” He smirked. “I like you, too.”
I shook my head. I didn’t mean that I liked sex with him—although, Jesus Christ,that, too.
I wanted him to know that I liked who he was as a person—intelligent and protective and irreverent and kind. I wanted him to know that talking with him had felt so comfortable I’d ended up telling him truths I couldn’t tell anyone else, even when I should have lied. I wanted him to look at me and see someone who wasn’t out to use him—not for donations, or to green-light my project, or even to give me contacts, no matter how badly I needed them.
“Bash. Sebastian. I… I meant…”
“Mmm?” He turned his head toward me, eyes still closed, breathing still a bit ragged. “I came so hard I can’t feel my toes, and my brain short-circuited. Go ahead and confess whatever you like, sweetheart. I promise, right now, nothing can shock me.”
My courage deserted me entirely.
“I’m the Burrito Bandito!” I blurted.
Bash’s eyes popped open, and we stared at each other as my confession landed with an awkward clunk between us.
“Well,” he said slowly. “Apparently, I was wrong.”
TEN
BASH
I stared at Rowe, chest heaving and heart squeezing painfully.
Had the man just confessed to being a fast-food thief? Was I experiencing oxygen deprivation? Was this how death by epic orgasm happened?
If so, that would explain a lot of things. For example, why my heart was trying to convince my brain that what I’d just experienced with Rowe was something way bigger and more life-altering than an orgasm.
“Repeat that?” I said, trying to make sense of his words.
Rowe covered his face with both hands like he was trying to conceal his blush, but it wasn’t working. “That wasn’t what I meant to say,” he groaned.
I leaned up on one elbow and brushed his damp hair away from his forehead before I could remind myself that being sweet and schmoopy was not a good idea, and then I pulled one hand away from his face.
He peered up at me, flushed and wild-eyed, sexy as hell and so damn sweet.
I wanted to devour him. To keep him in my bed for days with nothing available to him but the touch of my hands and lips, food fed to him from my fingers and tongue, and water only taken in furtive sips in the shower while I plastered him against the wall and fucked him long and hard into the cold tiles.
The fact that I could envisionallof this with perfect clarity suggested my response to him was about ten notches past insanity levels, so I forced myself to shove those feels deep into a box in the back of my brain.
I cleared my throat. “Are you… are you trying to tell me you’re hungry?” I asked, still not sure why he was talking about burritos. “Do you want me to order something?”
“No! I meant…” He sighed and shook his head slightly. “You know what? Yes. Yes I’m hungry. I didn’t eat much dinner because I was too busy talking. Thank you, and please.”
I heaved myself out of bed and reached for the phone on the nightstand to call room service, ordering a variety of desserts and snacks. While I did, Rowe sat up in bed with his hands in his lap and very pointedly didn’t look at me.
“Thirty minutes,” I told him after I hung up the phone. “Want to shower before they get here?”
He nodded, summoning a brief smile as he hopped out of bed.
I could tell his nerves were returning as the afterglow wore off, and part of me wanted to scoop him up in my arms and reassure him. Fortunately, the rest of me was far more wary.
Now that Rowe knew I was wealthy and had the connections he needed to get his project seen, how long before he forgot our agreement and started dropping hints about his mysterious project? How long before he started manipulating the connection between us in order to get what he wanted?
