I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the way my heart flutters at his teasing. Now that he’s in my personal space, I feel exposed. Like he’s seeing a side of me I usually keep tucked away, especially from wolves like him.
I waddle into the living room, acutely aware of the . . . er, evidence . . . of our tryst making its way down my leg.
Oh, for the love of—
Lizzie.
She has obviously attempted to “tidy up” by her standards, butshe’s also dragged home more random crap from whatever theater production she was auditioning at. There are corsets draped over the sofa that look like they belong in a Victorian brothel, and I’m pretty sure that’s a pair of assless chaps draped over the sofa armrest.
“Nice place,” Liam comments, his eyes roaming around my living room and landing on the kinky costume explosion.
“Those aren’t mine,” I squeak. “They’re my friend Lizzie’s. She’s in the theater. Very . . . avant-garde stuff.”
Liam doesn’t even blink. He’s probably seen kinkier.
“And it’s usually much tidier in here,” I add weakly, trying to shove the assless chaps under a cushion. “And that palace thing is not mine!” I cringe at Winnie’s Taj Mahal taking up all the space on the mat. Great, now I look like a crazy cat lady with a BDSM fetish.
He gives a small smile. “It’s lovely,” he says. Liar.
“It’s not much, but it’s home.” I shrug, feeling oddly defensive, and bite down the impulse to addSorry I don’t live in a penthouse with a helipad.
The thing is, I’m proud of my flat. I worked my ass off to buy it, with its gorgeous garden, in London, a city where you need to sell your firstborn just to afford a parking space. I’m the first woman in my family to own a home under my own name without sharing it with a husband.
But now Liam is in my space, and suddenly everything I was so proud of seems kind of . . . mid-range and banal. This is someone who speaks to crowds of people and takes over billion-pound companies, and here he is, in my little space with IKEA furniture and a cat castle. It feels suffocating.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” I ask, wringing my hands to keep from fluffing the sofa cushions. “Wine, water, beer, tea?”
“Just water, thanks,” he replies, casually removing his tie and draping it over the sofa before rolling up his sleeves. The simpleaction makes my mouth go dry. Is he serious with those forearms again?
I shake myself from my stupor. “Coming right up,” I chirp, then dash into the bathroom. I do a hasty fanny-wash, praying he can’t hear the water running and guess what I’m doing.
Just in case he’s still hungry for more than just water.
I return with a glass of water, a lemon wedge perched on the rim.
He walks toward me slowly. He takes the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing against mine.
Then he downs the water in one go, the muscles of his throat working in a way that makes me want to trace them with my tongue.
He sets the glass aside with a clink that sounds deafening in the charged silence, like a gong announcing the start of round two. Or maybe that’s just the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.
He smirks at me. “You seem tense.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, my voice coming out a bit more defensive than I intended. “It’s just strange seeing you in my flat, that’s all.”
“You want me to leave?”
“No,” I rush out. “I mean, not unless you want to.”
“I don’t.”
Without warning, he reaches out and tangles his hand in my hair, his grip firm. Bloody hell. “You are annoyingly beautiful,” he murmurs. “Just my type. Unfortunately.”
“You sound angry about that.”
“Like I said, it’s distracting.” His thumb brushes over my bottom lip. “I’m assuming you’re reconsidering your position on my proposal.”
“Perhaps. I’m open to negotiations. If I said yes, what would it involve?”
