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“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tells me. “There hasn’t been a woman here tonight, and you shouldn’t even be here.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not going down this road again with you, Shay.” He stomps past me and I spin in a circle to follow him with my eyes as he moves into the kitchen area. His large television, which takes up most of the wall, is still on and I can see he’s watching Sports Center. A glass of whiskey is sitting on the coffee table in front of the dark gray sectional couch I’d custom ordered when I designed this room. I didn’t originally have a television quite so big but he switched it to this one once he moved in.Men.
“What…road?” I ask.
“The road where you,” he swallows, leaning against the refrigerator, “try to tempt me.”
My sex clenches at his words like they have a direct line to it. “I didn’t realize—”
He cuts me off with a look. “I’m a red-blooded man, Shay, and even the most disciplined man has his limits.” My heart begins to beat faster because he’s never said anything like this to me before. “And now you’re—” He stops and clears his throat. “You should go.”
I feel a flash of cold and then hot made worse by all of the clothes I’m wearing. It makes me want to shed them all. “I’m what?”
“Feeling vulnerable because of Paxton and you trust me and I get that but I can’t fill that void, Shay.”
“This isn’t about that.” I correct him.It isn’t?
“Oh?”
“There’s always been something here. The way you look at me…” I remember Veronica’s words about how he looks at me and her ongoing theory that he has feelings for me. “I’m not the only one that’s noticed.”
When he rubs a hand over his jaw and looks away from me, I notice a slight pink tint in his cheeks. I wonder if he’s embarrassed that I’m calling him out or if it’s the alcohol catching up with him. “Looking isn’t touching, Shay.”
“So, you admit you’re looking, and that you want to…” I whisper, “touch.”
“No.” His voice is deep and gravelly and again has a direct line to the space between my legs that throbs for attention, reminding me why I came over here in the first place.
I take a step closer and drag my index finger along the dining table as I make my way around it to get closer to him. “You’re telling me, as disciplined as you are, that you wouldn’t be able to separate your job from…” I bite my bottom lip and raise an eyebrow, “something else you could do for me?” I’m now in the kitchen with him and I don’t even attempt to hide the way my eyes move slowly down his body to his groin and back up. I move closer and when he makes no effort to move, I wonder if I’ve got him. “It must be tough. Finding someone to…take care of things.”
His eyes trace my face and down my body and part of me wants to take off my sweater to expose my sheer red lacy bra but I worry that might kill the moment we’re in.
He doesn’t respond to my statement so I continue.
“Has it been very long?” There’s still about three feet between us and I inch slightly closer to him. He doesn’t respond again. “It’s been a minute for me.” I bite my lip. “Six weeks or so. Even longer if we’re talking about…if it was really good.” I chuckle and I hate that it makes me feel inadequate. Like it wasmy faultthat Paxton never made my orgasms a priority like I made his.
His jaw ticks and he narrows his gaze. “He didn’t make it good for you?” Something that looks like concern flashes in his blue eyes and it makes my toes curl. As if he could somehow protect me sexually the way he protects me physically.
“It wasn’t usually his main concern in bed. I mean don’t get me wrong, there were times Ididbut—”
“Every time.” He grunts and the two words hang in the air like what I hope to be a promise.
“What?” I ask, desperately needing clarification.
“A woman needs to come every time.” My heart picks up speed again listening to him talk about a woman’s climax. “Preferably before I do.” He shrugs. “And after.” A spark shoots through me and congregates between my legs. It begins to throb in time with my racing heart.
“Oh.” I let out a breath, the alcohol and this conversation making my skin prickle and my cunt get slicker with each passing second. “You didn’t say how long it’s been for you.”
“A while.” He stares at me, and then, just when I think he’s going to take a step closer to me, he breaks our gaze and moves to his living area to pick up his glass of whiskey. He drains the entire contents before slamming it down on the coffee table so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break. I jump at the noise and then he’s moving back towards me fast, crossing every line he’s drawn between us, and on instinct, I take a few steps back until I feel his kitchen counter at my lower back.
“I would make you come every. Fucking. Time,” he whispers and my sex clenches at his words and at how close he’s standing. We’re about as close as two people can get without touching as he peers down at me.
I drag my eyes over the hard planes of his chest and his arms, willing him closer, willing his hands to touch me, his arms to wrap around me. There are so few times I remember him touching me and I only recall his arms around me twice. Both times occurred the week my parents died so there wasn’t anything to those touches besides sympathy and comfort.
I draw in a short breath trying to stifle the moan sitting in the back of my throat. “How?”
“How would I make you come?” I nod, words escaping me and a smile pulls at his lips. “Well, that depends.”
