Reece’s head falls against my shoulder as the car starts down the city streets. It’s quiet except for the occasional voices coming over the cabbie’s radio. Dana lives closest so we drop her off first, watching her disappear behind her door. Next is Reece.
“Wait here,” Blake instructs our driver.
He points to the meter that steadily climbs with every minute we spend in here, but Blake doesn’t respond. Something tells me this isn’t a first for him. He’s too good at it.
We help Reece out and hold onto her until we’re standing in front of the door. “Can I have your key?” Blake asks, holding his hand out.
She unwraps her arm from Blake’s, clumsily digging through her purse. It’s painful to watch this bright, sweet girl struggle to do something so simple. I make a mental note not to do it to her again.
“Here,” I say, reaching for her purse. “Let me help you.” A few quick shuffles and I have her key chain between my fingers. I hand them over to Blake who makes quick work of the door.
“What apartment?” he asks.
I watch her struggle, going from a drunken awake state to half asleep. “Last door to the right,” she mumbles. Thank God it’s the first floor.
We get her inside and carefully tuck her into her bed before retreating back to the waiting cab. Blake hasn’t said much, and my liquid courage is dissipating. He follows me into the backseat, giving the driver the address for his last stop.
Distance remains between us. His elbow rests against the door, his fingers running along his strong jaw as he stares out at the city lights. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t look. That spark isn’t burning as brightly, but that’s what always happens when I think too much. What changed in the little bit since we left the bar?
He does this all the time, hot and cold, cold and hot. It makes it harder and harder to trust him, to know that he has the best of intentions with my heart. But then again, my heart was never supposed to get involved in this.
“You okay?” he finally asks when we pull up in front of our building.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs. “Did you have a little too much to drink?”
“Maybe, but it’s wearing off now.” Everything is as clear as it should be. Besides, I don’t think this much when I’m drunk.
Blake hands the driver enough cash for the whole ride plus tip and climbs out, holding the door open for me. He walks with me, but we don’t touch. The chilly night suddenly feels a lot colder.
He follows me up the stairs and unlocks our door before I get a chance. He holds it open then makes sure it’s locked again when we’re both inside.
I want the other Blake back—the one who’d set me on the counter and fuck me until I can’t walk tomorrow. The one who’d touch me in ways that would make me quit thinking again.
“You should probably go to bed,” he says. He stares at the floor, combing his fingers through his hair.
“What if I’m not tired?”
He laughs—not from humor but from frustration—and looks up. “You have to work tomorrow, remember?”
I nod, disappointment stinging the back of my throat. I’m not ready to call it a night, but I can’t stay here like this. This isn’t how I wanted the night to end. I hurry to my bedroom, careful to close the door behind me. I turn on the shower and strip out of my clothes while I wait for it to heat up.
With a lot on my mind, I stay under the water a little longer than I should. The three corners of my world collided tonight, parts successfully, others not so much. If it weren’t for a few drunken comments toward the end, things would have been perfect.
By the time I step out, my fingers are pruned. My skin bright red. Not wanting to dig around for pajamas, I pull on my robe and haphazardly run a comb through my hair. It’s almost midnight, and I should be tired, but I can’t shut off my brain. It drifts to Blake—why he is who he is, why he’s not easier to read . . . why he doesn’t want me. We all have a story. The more we let people know, the better they understand us.
Most of the things I know about Blake are drawn from what I know about Mallory. Their parents are professionals, still married and all in all good people. I know they pushed Mallory a little bit, but not in a sense that made her struggle under pressure. She drew from it. It helped her keep her focus. Maybe it was different for Blake, or there could be a whole other part of him that I don’t know.
I want to know every part of him.
When I finally emerge from my room, Blake is standing in the kitchen with a beer bottle to his lips. His eyes land on me almost immediately, exploring every inch of my bare, exposed legs. If I’m going to get his whole story, I need to do it his way. I need to speak his language and pray that he eventually speaks mine. This isn’t ideal—it’s a flower that won’t bloom, a tree without leaves. There could be so much more. It could be so much better. But if this is what I get, I’m going to keep it alive.
I walk toward him slowly, noticing the way his fingers tighten around the bottle . . . craving those hands on me. My robe slips off my shoulder, and I make no attempt to fix it. I take slow, calculated steps toward him. He strides around the counter toward me. A force stronger than either of us pulls our bodies together. Clasp. Glue. Desire.
My heart pumps faster when he’s standing right in front of me. Neither of us has muttered a single word. We just stay . . . like this, eyes of lust speaking silently to one another.
The way his lips part, the way his eyes gloss over, is confirmation enough. He craves this just as much as I do. I run my fingers along my belt, slowly untying it as his hands clench at his sides. The cotton robe falls open just enough to give him a glimpse of what he’s trying to deny himself.
I take another step, running my fingertips over my lower lip, pretending it’s him. His tongue sweeps across his lips, and I swear if he doesn’t touch me soon, I’ll scream.
Seduction is new, but I’m finding it’s like riding a bike—I just need to stop over-thinking it and move my legs. To him. To us.
One step closer, and our chests would be touching. I flush just thinking about his skin against mine. The robe slips further down my arm, and, this time, the pull is enough to take it to the ground. So I stand in front of him, naked and exposed, waiting for either the worst form of rejection or the elevator to sexual bliss.
A slow smile pulls at his lips as he cradles my face in his hands. His mouth crashes down on mine. It’s not enough. I want him—no, I need him deeper. I need all that I know he can give me.
I run my fingers over his strained erection, wanting so badly to free him and push him into me. Sex has never been a necessity to me, but with him, I breathe it, dream it. I live for it.
“Not going to sleep?” he asks between kisses.
“I’m not tired.” Definitely not going to sleep after a taste of him.
He pulls away, still holding my face. “I don’t want you to think I’m just using you. What Reece said—”
“She was drunk.”
He runs his thumbs over my cheekbones. “Do you remember what I said . . . about not getting your heart caught up in this? I meant it, but I don’t know if you’re that girl. I don’t know if you can leave your heart at the door.”
My finger covers his kissable pink lips. “Blake, you promised me counter sex. It’s all I’ve thought about all damn day. Now, are you going to give it to me or not?”
“Promise me,” he says, “Promise me that this is all there is. That you won’t let yourself fall into something deeper, because Lila, I don’t want to hurt you.” His chest pulses. My heart clenches. “I can’t hurt you.”
If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that Blake’s loved before. To understand pain and hurt, you have to have loved first. Who hurt him so badly that he won’t let himself go through it again?
“Touch me. Please.” I inch my fingers up, brushing against his stomach, his sculpted chest. His body is a touchable masterpiece.