My body feels as if it’s running on nothing but fumes. I’ve always been the type of girl who needs eight hours of sleep, but I’ve only gotten about five. I’ve been up for most of the night waiting for Bronx, not because I was worried about his safety or anything. A man like him can take care of himself, but because I foolishly wanted to tell him about my visit to the hospital.
He may not be exactly likable, but there’s an inexplicable level of comfort I feel around him. For instance, I like that the two of us can have a conversation or a difference of opinion without me worrying about him flying into a rage. And while I don’t particularly like that he drinks so much, because most of my interactions with people that use alcohol as a crutch have not ended well, I understand that he’s using it to manage his pain. A pain which I can’t even imagine understanding.
He may be hard and rough around the edges, but there are soft spots to him, too. Why else would he allow me, a complete stranger, to stay here with him in his apartment? And more importantly, why would he go to Ruby’s and do what he did to Ray for me? It was above and beyond what I wanted or expected from him, but that’s the thing. Bronx rarely says or does anything one would expect. One day he’s going to make some poor unsuspecting woman very confused and probably very happy.
So while I don’t owe his grumpy ass an explanation about anything I do, yesterday I still wanted to clear the air about why I made such a hasty decision to go to the hospital to see Ray. It may not make much sense to a person on the outside looking in, but I craved a type of closure that you don’t get by simply forgetting a person ever existed. I needed to say what had been on my heart, and I feel good about it today, especially because I know that Ray heard every word I said to him in that hospital room. He just pretended not to.
Of course, all of my reasons for wanting to tell Bronx what happened at the hospital have flown completely out of the door because he wasn't home to hear them and I guess something about that really bothered me. I keep bringing it up. I’m just not a hundred percent sure that I understand the reasons why.
Then the reason hits me like a thunderbolt when Bronx grabs me by the wrist as I walk toward the bedroom to finish getting ready for a small apartment cleaning job Brenda assigned me to.
Electric pulses slide up my arm and head straight toward my nipples. They pebble immediately underneath my baggy shirt and like little magnets, they pull Bronx’s eyes directly toward them.
“What are you doing?” I ask cautiously.
“Something I shouldn’t.”
We’re standing midway between the living room and the guest bedroom when he suddenly yanks me into his warm, hard body. I crash into him with a thud and the room is quiet as I listen to both of us breathing heavily, as if we’re running for our lives while standing in place.
Suddenly, he bends at the knees and kneels on the floor in front of me, using both of his hands to gently lift my shirt to my waist. It’s an act of both domination and submission, and it turns me on in a way that I never thought was possible.
My attraction to him is almost palpable.
And based on the heat in his eyes right now, it’s mutual.
When he lifts the shirt right underneath my breasts, he pauses, giving me a moment to make a choice. After what I’ve shared with him about my past, he probably needs to hear the words, but I’m not sure I know how to say them.
I want him.
There’s no denying that, but I just don’t know how to be comfortable in my own sexuality yet, especially with a man who oozes nothing but sex.
I can feel his breath on my skin right above my belly button.
Teasing me.
Tempting me.
Just a minute ago, I resolved myself to the fact that I don’t even like this man and that he’s just a means to an end. My plan was to accept his generosity and stay at his place for a few days, have him find my brother, pay him the few hundred bucks I have saved in the bank, and be on my merry way.
Now I’m starting to think that I’ve been fooling myself this entire time. I’ve only known him for a hot New York minute, but there was something unforgettable about him the first time we met. Something that’s been pulling at me.
Still on his knees, almost as if he’s worshiping at a temple, Bronx lifts his head to meet my eyes, but his hands stay locked in place, holding my shirt up high.
“I’m waiting for you to say the words,” he says in a thick voice that sounds strained with want rather than pain.
“You’re not my type,” I say rather unconvincingly, but hoping that will stop him in his tracks.
“I’m every woman’s type,” he growls confidently into the skin above my panties.
I close my eyes and bite my lower lip to keep myself from mewing like a kitten whose belly is being stroked.
“The words,” he tells me again.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I say softly.
“Do you like this?”
He runs two of his fingers along the top of my waistband, exactly where his lips just were.
