She holds out the brown paper bag, feeling absurdly lame. Like a stray starved for attention.
Or maybe just for him.
“I brought doughnuts.”
CHAPTER 23
LOVE ON THE BRAIN
ROMAN
When Roman sees her, the first thing that comes to mind is how much of aterrible fucking ideait was to invite her over again. It’s far too intimate. It’s too secluded, and worst of all, it’s his house. Here, he used to be able to think. Here, he used to be able to breathe.
Here, he was safe.
It was pure.
Untouched.
There were no remnants of the sea green jacket. Of fruit-scented hair wash. No imprints of her laughter within the echoes of the wall, no woman-shaped impression in his sofa, no relics of her time within the confines of this house.
Here, he was free from the increasingly dangerous, eroticizing, loud,unbefittingthoughts of the woman who has bulldozed her way into his central and peripheral nervous system.
But now.
Now, it’s ruined. He’s ruined.
Because it’s his house, and he knows it like the back of his hand. He knows the best places to sit for a good view of the television, the perfect temperature to set the thermostat at so it’snot too hot for him and Lucy, the ideal time to start the washer and dryer so that it doesn’t disturb his daughter. And now all he can think about is her.
In his kitchen. On the dining room table.
In his bedroom.
She leans against the doorway in a layer of fabric thathasto be destroying the blood circulation in her body, but is doingeverythingto accentuate the roundness of her breasts, the muscles of her thighs, the curve of her arms, and?—
“Roman. You gonna let me in or has the offer been rescinded?”
His eyes cut to her own, and he steps backward.
How could she possibly think that?
He shakes his head, letting out a strained chuckle.
“Shit, yeah. Come in.”
Just thinking about how I could lock this door, spread your legs open, and work you up until morning against it. The bookshelf. The floor. Anywhere. Everywhere.
His fists clench at his sides as his stomach dips.
“Just thinking how nice you look,” he finishes in a raspy, uneven tone.
He clears his throat again as a gentle smile seeps onto her face, like his pathetic attempt at a compliment actuallydidsomething for her, which is now doing something for him.
“Thanks,” she says, sliding past him to slip off her shoes. He follows slowly behind her and moves to the fridge. “Do you want something to drink? Water, wine?”
“I’ll take a glass of wine.”
He looks up and sees that she’s now positioned herself on top of the island. Quite comfortably, and he wonders would she mind?Would she really hate it if he drew her leggings down over her ass and thighs until they were a heap of fabric on his kitchen floor—if he worked his mouth over her body, slipped his fingersinside her, and watched her unravel with his name on her lips? Would it be so bad?
