His eyebrows shot up. “Me? Weird?”
“You moved us in together without consulting me. Refurnished everything. Yelled at me about a homicide investigation. Now, you’re cooking me dinner. What’s going on behind those dimples, Santiago?”
“Nothing’s going on. Boyfriends cook dinner for their girlfriends all the time. They also yell at them about homicides.”
Riley remained skeptical. “You don’t have to go full-speed ahead, you know. You’re new to this relationship thing. I’m not expecting you to whip out a diamond ring and a 401(k) beneficiary form.”
“You have a problem with us living together?” he demanded.
She scanned the space. The new couch. The big flat screen. The dining table that looked as if it could handle the weight of an entire Thanksgiving feast. “No. I’m just worried that you’re jumping into this faster than you should.”
Very deliberately, he took the beer from her, took a sip, and set it down next to the stove. Then he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her cutoffs and pulled her into him.
“I like fast,” he whispered darkly in her ear.
Yes, yes, he did.And he’d been turning her into a speed freak, too. Shoving her out of her comfort zone into free fall. Except every time she was certain she’d plummet to her death, he’d been there to catch her.
“I’m starting to like fast too,” she said, deciding dinner and state of the union relationship talks could wait.
She sank her teeth into his ear lobe. He hissed out a breath, and his fingers tightened their grip on her hips.
“What do you say we see how this table holds up to combined body weight?” she suggested.
He growled low in his chest and turned the stove burner off. “It’s got a max load of five hundred. I checked,” he said, picking her up and carrying her toward the table.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and held on tight.
He slid her ass onto the table and stood between her thighs, staring down into her eyes.
“I like you, Thorn.”
She heard the catch in his voice and melted like cheese under a broiler. “I like you too, Nick.”
He shook his head. “Uh-uh. Ilike youlike you.”
She felt dizzy and warm and really, really turned on.
“Ilike youlike you too,” she whispered.
“Promise?” His lips were a breath away from hers.
“Cross my heart,” she said, dragging his mouth down to hers.
Nick Santiago could kiss. He could make a professional career out of it. Women would pay him to kiss them breathless and make them feel like the center of his universe. Not that she was going to bring up the idea right now. Not since it washerbreath he was stealing andshewas the center of the universe.
She didn’t know how she’d gotten this lucky. Why he’d hurled his bachelor lifestyle out the window for a chance with her. But rather than overthink it, she’d just go with it.
She was so busy enjoying his mouth on hers that she didn’t hear the door when it flew open. “Riley, got another bin for you!”
Fred Bogdanovich, in a Pink Floyd t-shirt, very short yoga shorts, and his summer toupee—it was blond—burst into her apartment with the energy of a much younger man.
When she tried to pull away, Nick clamped a hand to the back of her head and continued to kiss the hell out of her while waving his other at the wayward senior citizen.
“Oops. Didn’t know you two were busy canoodling,” Fred said, dropping the plastic tub next to the door.
“We need a new apartment,” she told Nick’s mouth. “One where we don’t know our neighbors.”
“Guess I’ll just leave you to it.” Fred paused and sniffed the air. “Hey! Fajitas. My favorite.”
