Chapter Nine
Archer
The second I’m inside my townhouse and take the key out of the lock, Talia is on me like a spider monkey.
My back hits the wall, knocking the breath from my lungs. I lift my arms to catch her, cradling one of her thighs as she loses traction and her other leg brushes the fly of my pants.
I’m rock hard in an instant.
I kick my front door shut and blindly feel for the deadbolt, my mouth never leaving hers. She bites down on my bottom lip as I hoist her into my arms. Opening my eyes so I don’t run us into a wall, I steer her past the living room and into my kitchen. She ends our kiss when I flip on the light. Her deep brown eyes are wild, her smile a spotlight.
I go in for more, but she presses her finger to my lips, stopping me. “I was promised wine.”
My breaths come hard and fast, and I have to blink to reboot my offline brain.
“So you were.” I squeeze her ass before setting her down. She straightens her sweater. I pop the door open on the wine cooler and pull out a nineteen-year-old Malbec.
We ate dinner at a French restaurant that is more of a cafe. The owner is an actual Frenchman named Pierre. I know, right? They serve the best crepes. I knew Talia would like them and figured it would give her something to talk to her sister about other than the fact she’s obliterated my resolve inside of five measly hours.
I’m weak for Talia, a prospect as foreign to me as Pierre was pre-emigration. Weakness isn’t an attribute I aspire to—especially when involved with a woman. I have had my share of experiences that were wham, bam, thank you ma’am, and while I’m not complaining, that sort of thing doesn’t interest me any longer.
The arrangement used to work perfectly for me. I travel a lot, and my hours are shit. Putting up with my hectic schedule is a lot to ask of a girlfriend. Plus, my free time is spent mostly with my brothers or parents, and, as discussed, I avoid having dates for any and all functions with my family. I find it easier not to cross the streams, if you take my meaning. Having Talia here tempts me to do the unthinkable and cross those streams regardless of the consequences. No one has caught my attention since I bought her that first drink in Florida last spring.
I don’t even want to consider what that might mean.
I pour two glasses of wine and hand one to my houseguest, who is finger-combing her long, wavy hair. I follow the sweep of hair down to her thick, curved hips, and back up to mesmerizing eyes. My hard-on pulses impatiently, which I find soothing. If my body is weak for this girl, that’s excusable. I mean, look at her.
“To the second-best crepes I’ve ever tasted.” She touches her wineglass to mine, and then we drink. The red is fruity, soft, and drinkable. She hums in the back of her throat, a sound I’d like to hear a hell of a lot more of tonight, before nodding her approval.
“Can I show you around?” I invite.
She purses her full lips. “Is this a trick to lure me into your bedroom?”
“Definitely.” I take her hand. “But I won’t make you stay there if you don’t want to.”
Talia
I admit, leaping on Archer the second we stepped inside wasn’t the best way to play hard to get. Not that I’m playing hard to get…
Half of me warns to tread carefully. We’re embarking on a business relationship and making this personal (again) is a not-so-great idea. The other half of me argues that we have a lot of fun together, so why not have more? Since I haven’t decided whose side to take on the debate, I stalled by asking for wine.
He gives me the briefest of tours of the upstairs, which is the same layout as the townhouse I’m staying in, mirrored. Only instead of two guest bedrooms, one of them acts as his office.
“Steel gray and black is not a color scheme,” I say as he leads me away from the neutral rooms and toward the double-doored bedroom. “If anything it’s a lack-of-color scheme.”
We step into the master bedroom, a gargantuan space like the room I’m staying in. His bed is bigger, a California king, I’d guess. The comforter is navy blue with one fat white stripe running horizontally along the bottom. Crisp, clean white pillowcases appear to have been recently fluffed.
“Did your housekeeper come today, or are you extremely neat?” I ask, admiring the masculine walnut furniture.
“Yesterday,” he admits easily. “I don’t sleep in this bed. I crash on the couch when I’m here. If I sleep at all.”
“Why?” I run my fingertips over the comforter and then test the springiness of the mattress with both hands. “Is this bed reserved for sex?”
I’m rewarded with a loose laugh, and I’m positive I don’t hide my wide-eyed admiration of the rich, luscious sound. “You think I bring women here. That’s cute.”
“You brought me here.” If I’m breaking one of my rules and one of his rules, do they cancel each other out?
“I don’t have you yet,” he rumbles, crossing his wide bedroom in two steps. I rest my hands on his forearms, tipping my head to admire the slope of his strong nose, his neatly groomed beard, and finally, those green eyes, heating to a distracting degree. I want him to kiss me. Even though I shouldn’t.