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He slowly slid down to sit on the floor and I tsked and quickly prepared him a glass of water, making sure that the door had locked behind him. I crouched down and handed him the water and he drank it greedily.
“What the hell are you doing here instead of passed out somewhere?” I asked.
“My brothers said I should come,” he said. “Said I should talk to you.”
He looked up at me with dazed green eyes, his hair mussed, and it felt like an arrow in my heart was twisting around. He looked so cute like this, so boyish.
“What are we going to talk about? I thought we had said our goodbyes,” I said softly.
“Don’t want it to be goodbye,” he mumbled, and reached for me, missing once before he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me into his lap. I made an “oof” sound and my legs instantly straddled his hips.
He sighed out a breath and put his arms tightly around me, pressing his face into my neck. “I love the way you smell,” he muttered, and I pulled back from him just slightly.
“Roarke, you don’t want to do this. You’re just drunk,” I said hesitantly. So much of me wanted this to be real, wanted him to really want to come and see me instead of being talked into it by his brothers.
“I always want to do this,” he insisted, planting sloppy kisses on my mouth and throat.
“You should drink some more water,” I said, handing him the glass and he pouted but dutifully drank the rest of it, one arm still loose around my waist. When I tried to get up, it tightened.
“We can’t sleep here on the floor,” I argued.
“Don’t want to sleep,” he slurred. “Just want to be with you.”
Fuck. My heart ached. It physically hurt to not be near him, and I knew that was a problem. I’d been crying all afternoon, and I was glad he was too drunk to notice. I didn’t know what to do with Roarke Brentwood. He always seemed to have it together, but lately, what with him punching Mark and throwing a fit in his office and now showing up shitfaced at my door...it made me wonder if all of this was bad for him.
It was like we were toxic together, and maybe it was for the best we couldn’t make it work.
“Let’s go to bed,” I cajoled him and stood up, pulling him with me.
Roarke whined but stumbled up, holding on to the wall until I led him to my bedroom, his arm heavy across my shoulders. He fell down on the bed but he tugged me with him and I squeaked as I landed on top of him.
He smiled up at me, cupping my face with his hands. “You’re so beautiful, Magda,” he said earnestly, and the look in his eyes made me want to look away. I couldn’t do this. My heart hurt too much.
“Thank you,” I said haltingly. “Now what was it you wanted to talk about?”
Roarke frowned. ”I don't want to tell you," he said petulantly, and it surprised me into a laugh.
“No?”
“Absolutely not,” he said firmly. ”I don't want you to know you have the upper hand.”
“What do you mean, the upper hand? This isn’t poker.”
“Yeah, it is,” he said solemnly, nodding his head. “All of life is a game, you know, and I was winning. Until you.”
I laughed, looking at his glazed eyes. “You’re a funny drunk, Roarke.”
He frowned. “I’m serious. I was winning. I had everything, and now look. I don’t even have the firm anymore.”
I frowned back. “That wasn’t because of me, you said.”
“Of course it’s because of you,” he said, his eyes fluttering closed. “Everything is because of you.”
“Roarke,” I said softly, but his eyes didn’t open again and he was asleep with me held loosely in his arms.
I took in a deep, shaking breath. What the hell had that been about?
I wasn’t looking forward to the next morning, where he would surely call coming over a total mistake and hurt my feelings. Instead, when I finally made it to sleep a few hours later, I was woken up by Roarke’s erection pressing insistently up against my ass.
