Alone.
And in the dark.
“You okay?” I ask.
He’s hunched over, elbows on the tops of his thighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Releasing a breath, he leans back and directs his tired eyes my way.
“Yeah,” he says.
I have a feeling that’s all I’m going to get from him, but I’m okay with that. The man’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. He doesn’t owe anyone an all-access pass to the deepest corners of his mind.
Taking a seat beside him, I breathe in the scent of the leather sofa and the faintest hint of his warm aftershave from his afternoon shower.
The tingle on my lips comes next. Out of nowhere. But I ignore it.
Or at least I try to.
He hasn’t so much as hinted about making a move on me, but all of a sudden my heart is banging around in my chest and my mouth is dry and my palms are damp.
I haven’t the slightest idea what’s happening right now.
“You don’t have to sleep down here tonight,” Sutter says a beat later. “Take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”
“No,” I say. “That’s ridiculous. I didn’t give up my bed just so I could take yours.”
“If you want a kink in your neck tomorrow, that’s on you.” He rises. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, and don’t come asking for a massage.”
“What makes you think I’d ask you for a massage?” I give a half-laugh, peering up at him through my lashes. “You barely look at me half the time and every time you touch me, you act like you’re disgusted with your lack of self-control afterwards.”
Our gazes hold for what feels like an eternity before he finally speaks.
“I screw things up,” he says with a sigh. “That’s what I do. I’m not the kind of guy you have any business getting attached to. When I’m being an asshole, trust me, I have your best interests in mind.”
“How valiant of you.” I roll my eyes, smile fading.
“But I still think you should come upstairs,” he adds, and I swear I see the tiniest glint in his hazel eyes.
My heart ricochets, this time harder, and while the voice in my head is screaming, begging, and pleading for me to stay firmly planted right here on his cognac sofa, the burn between my legs and ache on my mouth is impossible to ignore.
I suppose you don’t have to like someone to have sex with them.
“You do, do you?” I lean back, crossing my legs and pretending I have no intention of giving in. If he wants this, he’s going to have to work a little bit harder.
Men never appreciate anything unless they have to work for it.
“I don’t know,” I say, forcing a yawn, “I’m kind of tired.”
“Tired my ass.” Without warning, Sutter reaches for my hand, taking it in his and pulling me to a standing position.
I suck in a startled breath. “Oh. Hi.”
His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t smirk or wink or smile. And when his steely stare lands on my mouth, I know what’s going to happen next.
It starts with his fingers beneath my chin, aligning our mouths at the perfect angle. Next, his hand slides along the side of my neck until his fingers are buried in the hair at the nape of my neck. He breathes me in. My heart threatens to explode in my chest. I lick my lips, swallow, and brace myself …
… for a kiss that doesn’t happen.
Sutter steps away, his eyes moving past my shoulders. When I turn, I spot Tucker standing at the base of the stairs.
Shit.
The two of them exchange a wordless conversation, and a second later, Tucker heads to the kitchen for a snack and a glass of milk.
“Go upstairs.” Sutter leans in and speaks against my ear, voice low despite the fact that no one else can technically hear us. “I’m not done with you yet.”
I bite a half-smile and linger, debating whether or not to indulge his wishes. But it doesn’t take long for me to accept the fact that I want this release as much as he does.
“Fine,” I say. “But only because I want to. Not because you’re telling me to.”
Turning, I make my way upstairs, my hand slicking along the wooden banister as I climb the steps, and then I turn left at the top, heading into his room.
His bed is neatly made, the corners tucked military-style, and one of his closet doors is half-open, lending a peek at his color-coded shirt collection.
I’ve always heard that people who grew up in chaotic, dysfunctional families with no real order sometimes grew up to have Type-A tendencies. It makes them feel like they have some kind of control over their life, even if it’s the small stuff.
Climbing beneath the covers, I fluff the pillow behind me and wait …