Anything to remind him that he’d once caught her and Harley practicing kissing on his cousin’s pillows. That she used to crush on boy bands with more synthesizers t
han talent. That he’d wiped her tears and offered to pound on the little shit that had bullied her on the playground over something she couldn’t change—her skin color.
Anything to reinforce that she wasn’t one of the women whose front doors would witness his walks of shame.
With an arch of a brow, she leaned forward so she couldn’t help but inhale the evaporating puff. “Try me,” she whispered.
A low, insistent throb pulsed low in his gut, and his abs clenched, as if grasping for that familiar but somehow different grip of desire.
Desire. For Reagan? Wrong. So damn wrong.
Coward, a sibilant voice hissed at him. And he mentally flipped it off, shifting backward and leaning a shoulder against a stone column.
“Let’s see,” he said, valiantly injecting a lazy note of humor into his voice. “I can put away an entire meat lovers pizza by myself and not use a coaster for my beer. I’m unreasonably grouchy if I’m awake before the god-awful hour of seven o’clock. Especially if there’s no coffee to chase away my pain. And—this one I’m kind of embarrassed to admit—I buy at least five pairs of socks every month. Apparently, my dryer is a portal to a world where mismatched socks are some kind of special currency. And since I can’t abide not matching, I’m constantly a spendthrift on new pairs. There. You now know all of my immoralities.”
A beat of silence, and then, “Really?”
He smirked. “Really,” he replied, then jerked his chin up. “Your turn. Regale me with all of your sins, little Ray.”
As he’d expected, irritation glinted in her chocolate eyes. “I have no idea how I can follow that, but here goes.” He huffed out a low chuckle at the thick sarcasm coating her words. “Every night, I slip downstairs after everyone has gone to bed and have a scotch by myself. No one to judge me, you see? Since my nightly ritual could be early signs of me becoming an alcoholic like my uncle James. What else?”
She hummed, trailing her fingertips over her collarbone, her lashes lowering in a pretense of deep thought. But Ezekiel knew better. She’d already given this a lot of consideration. Had already catalogued her perceived faults long before this conversation.
Acid swirled in his stomach, creeping a path up his chest. He straightened from his lounge against the pillar, prepared to nip this in the bud, but she forestalled him by speaking again. And though a part of him yearned to tell her to stop, to warn her not to say another word, the other part... Yeah, that section wanted to hear how imperfect she was. Craved it. Because it made him feel less alone.
More human.
God, he was such a selfish prick.
And yet, he listened.
“I hate roses. I mean, loathe them. Which is important because my mother loves them. And every morning there are fresh bouquets of them delivered to the house for every room, including the kitchen. And every day I fight the urge to knock one down just to watch them scatter across the floor in a mess of water, petals and thorns. Because I’m petty like that. And finally...”
She inhaled, turning to look at him, those eyes, stark and utterly beautiful in their intensity, pinning him to his spot against the railing. “Once a month, I drive over to Joplin and visit the bars and restaurants to find a man to take to a hotel for a night. We have hot, filthy sex and then I leave and return home to be Royal socialite darling Reagan Sinclair again.”
Heat—blistering hot and scalding—blasted through him, punching him in the chest and searing him to the bone. Jesus, did she just...? Holy fuck. Lust ate at him. Lust...and horror. Not because she took charge of her own sexuality. It was a twisted and unfair double standard, how men like him could escort woman after woman on his arm, and screw many more, with only an elbow nudge or knowing wink from society. But a woman doing the same thing? Especially one of Reagan’s status? Hell no. So for her to take her pleasure into her own hands? He didn’t fault her for it.
But the thought of her trolling those establishments filled with drunk men? Some man who wouldn’t have an issue with not taking the utmost care with her? Of potentially hurting her? That sent fear spiking through him, slaying him.
And then underneath the horror swirled something else. Something murkier. Edgier. And better off not being unearthed or examined too closely.
“Reagan...” he whispered.
“Relax,” she scoffed, flicking a hand toward his face. “I made the last one up. But turnabout is fair play since I’m almost eighty-two percent sure you were lying to me about at least one of yours. Maybe two.”
He froze. Stared at her. Stunned...and speechless. Mirror emotions—hilarity and anger—battled it out within him. He didn’t know whether to strangle her for taking twenty years off his life... Or double over with laughter loud enough to bring people rushing through those balcony doors.
“That wasn’t very nice,” he finally muttered, his fingers in danger of snapping his prized cigar in half. “And payback is not only a bitch but a vengeful one.”
“I’m shaking in my Jimmy Choos,” she purred.
And this time, he couldn’t hold back the bark of laughter. Or the goodness of it. Surrendering to the need to touch her, even if in a platonic manner, he moved forward and slipped an arm around her shoulders, hugging Reagan into his side like he used to do when she’d worn braces and friendship bracelets.
There was nothing girlish about the body that aligned with his. Nothing pure about the stirrings in his chest and gut...then lower. A new strain took up residence in his body. One that had nothing to do with the whispers and gossiping awaiting him inside. This tension had everything to do with her light, teasing scent, the slender hand branding his chest, the firm, beautiful breasts that pressed against him.
Still, he squeezed her close before releasing her.
“Thank you, Reagan,” he murmured.