And now I never wanted to feed myself again.
My feminism swooned and crumpled in a heap between us. When I tried to pick her up, she flitted off like Peter Pan’s elusive shadow.
The backstabbing little bitch.
I pushed through the door to our room, Nick strolling along behind me with his hands casually in his pockets like nothing had happened.
Like he didn’t just feed me.Feed me!
Like he hadn’t just, in spite of the food judgment and in the classiest way possible, made me want that fucking potato again. As though he hadn’t all but told me to lie back and relax my pretty little head about it because he lived to serve.
I couldn’t be the only one affected here. I refused. I would not be one of the many women falling over tits up for him.
No.
My gaze settled on my garment bag hanging casually in the closet courtesy of the concierge and a slow grin spread over my face. The answer to having the upper hand suddenly clear.
Poor Saint Nick.
He was about to have a rough night.
He pulled the cushions off the couch one at a time, the confusion written on his face morphing into dread. “It’s not a bed.”
I moved the bag to the hook on the inside of the bathroom door and glanced at him over my shoulder. “The bed is right there.”
“There’s only one.”
“Look at you, you can count.”
“I’m not sharing the bed with you, Charlie.”
Jesus. I might need him to start calling me Charlotte, no matter how much I loathed the name. Now that I heard the low rumble of my name on his lips as he fed me, I ONLY heard my name in that tone.
Nick feeding me was far more intimate than sleeping next to me, but whatever. I shrugged and grasped the zipper. “Fine, take the couch.”
“It’s scratchy.”
I blew out a breath that came out as a half sigh, half laugh. “So be a grown-up and just sleep on the damn bed, Nick.”
“With you?”
“It’s a king size. I think we can manage. Why, think you can’t resist me?”
What I was about to do was rather cruel considering his current crisis, but I’d ask forgiveness later.
Actually, I would rather go down in flames.
I dragged the zipper in one long pull around all three sides and let it fall open, my gaze on him the whole time.
Mr. Composed, I’m totally going to rock your russet world disappeared right before my eyes. Saint Nick, the one who was definitely, probably not so fun at parties, appeared complete with wide eyes and his mouth hanging open.
Over six feet of rock-hard athletic body, forearms for days, and a fucking beard made for riding covering a square jaw so bloody sexy it made clits ache with a single glance stood there, absolutely speechless.
He raised a finger and tilted his head as though he planned to say something, but then his mouth snapped shut.
A muscle ticked in his cheek.
His ass landed on the couch with a thud.
