“I should be wounded.”
“But you’re not.” Beckett shoved the key to the building lock into the door and held it open. Rhys stepped inside and waited for him at the elevators.
“No,” Rhys agreed. “I know who I am and what I’m about.”
“See, that’s where I think you’re wrong.”
Together, they stepped into the elevator. Beckett pushed the button for the third floor and leaned against the back railing. “I don’t think you have any idea who you are. At least, not apart from your money.”
The elevator stuttered to a stop on Beckett’s floor and the doors slid open. He stepped out and Rhys followed him, in silent agreement, down the hall to his apartment. Beckett inserted his key into the lock and turned back toward Rhys, unsure if he was still waiting for a reply or ready to admit the silence was answer enough.
“Another date.” Rhys scratched the delicate arch of his eyebrow, then tucked his hands together behind his back.
“But not like this one.”
“Dates do cost money, Beckett.”
Was that the first time Rhys had said his name? God, it sounded so elegant on Rhys’s cultured tongue. Beckett fought to not let his eyelashes flutter at the sound of it. His brain supplied him with what it would sound like if Rhys moaned his name, and he clenched his fists at his sides.
“Not that much,” he said.
Rhys took a small step forward, closing the space between them. They were close enough to touch, and Beckett could smell the wine and egg rich pasta on Rhys’s breath. He leaned back against his door, but Rhys followed after.
“What’s the limit?” Rhys asked.
Beckett closed his eyes and let out all of the air in his lungs. Rhys had gotten closer. He knew it. He could feel the heat of him. The want. The desperation. God, what a delight to be the one who could unravel and lay bare a man like Rhys St. George. Beckett reached behind him and grabbed the doorknob. His palm slid against it, slippery from sweat.
“Fifty dollars,” he said. And even that was a lot. Fifty should cover a movie for two and some popcorn or a rental and takeout. He wondered where Rhys lived. What his house looked like. How he decorated.
“That’s not enough for me.” Rhys’s breath was hot against his cheek. “I need more.”
Beckett wasn’t sure if they were talking about money or something else. He caught hold of the knob and turned.
“Sixty,” he said.
“A hundred.”
Considering Beckett had drunk more than a hundred dollar’s worth of wine on their first date, it seemed like a fair enough concession.
“A hundred,” he agreed, opening his eyes. His pulse beat in his ears like a bass drum. “Let me give you my phone number.”
Rhys pulled out his phone and keyed in the digits Beckett managed to whisper, then returned his phone to his pocket and looked down at him. The expression wasn’t expectant, but it was hopeful and cautious. It was dangerous. Rhys would consume him. Beckett could tell that much. He knew Rhys was a force of nature, and anyone who wasn’t prepared for his strength and determination would simply find themselves torn down and ruined in his wake.
“Beckett,” Rhys said his name again, slow and sweet as honey.
“Thank you for lunch,” he said quickly, opening the door and slipping inside before Rhys could say another syllable. Beckett slammed the door closed and braced himself against the door frame, struggling for breath. He’d made it through two car rides and an entire meal with the man, but somehow, when Rhys moved so close, when he moved close withintent, it was like he became a predator and Beckett, the prey.
He supposed it wasn’t the worst dynamic to hope for, but it had snuck up on him unexpectedly. Beckett had made enough bad decisions in his life to know what they looked like, and letting Rhys one breath closer would have been catastrophic. Beckett’s line of questioning at lunch had thrown Rhys off, and he’d clearly slipped into a mode that made him comfortable, searching for a place where he could have the high ground again.
Beckett almost hated that he knew it, that he could identify it. He wished that he didn’t know how to read people as well as he did so he could just have allowed himself to get swept up with this one man for that one moment. But his sense of self-preservation had persevered. He knew that wouldn’t last forever.
“Beckett.” Rhys’s voice vibrated from the other side of the door. He hadn’t left.
Shit.
Shit.
“Beckett,” Rhys said again, “open the door.”
