Fuck.
Dylan is…particular. About his t
hings. His wants. He marks his food. His books. Hell, he’s even marked me.
I glance at the cake. So moist. So delicious. It would be a waste not to eat it and a shame not to wash it down with a cold glass of milk. Without another thought I grab the carton and fill the glass. Shit. Too much, that’s like, the whole carton. I pour a little back in and maybe he’ll just think he drank it all. Sue will get him more.
I’ll leave her a note.
I sit at the table and like a bloodhound on a trail, I’ve barely got the first forkful in my mouth when Dylan walks in. Shirtless. Pajama pants low on his hips.
“Hey,” I say around a mouthful of cake. Did it just get hot in here? I turn around and take a gulp of the milk. Then another, and hide the glass under the table. Then I wipe my mouth and ask, “What are you doing down here?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d come down for a snack.”
“You never sleep.”
He shrugs and walks to the cabinet, pulling out a glass identical to mine. I shove a hunk of cake in my mouth and start to stand. I’ve got to get out of here.
The next minute passes in a blur of cake, refrigerators, and milk cartons. Dylan lifts the carton and shakes it, the little bit left swishing inside. He looks at me. I look at the door.
I bolt for the hallway but his gods-forsaken excessively long arm shoots out and blocks me in. “Did you drink my milk?”
“Hmm?”
“You know the rules, Morgan.” He points to the carton. “My name is right here.”
“It wasn’t me.”
Stares.
“Seriously.”
Harder.
“I didn’t drink your milk, Dylan.”
He doesn’t move. His eyes are narrow and I’ve never truly been afraid of Dylan. Well, at least not in a long time. We’ve been through a lot together. So much. We’ve fought and killed for one another. But now? He has murder in his eyes, directed squarely at me.
“So look…”
His eyebrow quirks. His chest and torso are very close. His arm, lean and taut with corded muscle takes up much of the space. It’s hard for me to take my eyes off of that part of his body.
“What if I did drink your milk?”
“So you drank it.”
“No.” I hold up my hands. “What if I did drink it? I’m asking…hypothetically.”
He moves his arm but still takes up the entire doorway with his wide shoulders and long body. He crosses his arms and tilts his head. “I don’t know, Morgan. Theft is a pretty big deal.”
“What if I worked off the debt?”
He looks me up and down, blue eyes skimming over my tank and shorts. “I’m listening.”
I don’t need to tell him what I’m thinking. I simply touch the fuzzy hair trailing down his lower belly. His stomach twitches but his jaw remains set.
His hand grips mine and stops me from moving any further. I look up at him curiously, but he moves with cat-like reflexes, lifting me off the ground with one arm, clearing the table with another, and dropping me on the edge.