And five minutes later, the cold biting at the exposed skin on my hands and face and throat, I know she realizes that too.
Because the light just beyond the door turns on, shining through the long window on one side of it.
I hear aclickand then the handle turns, the door swinging back enough for her to stand in the opening. Her brows flick up in silent question, but she doesn’t otherwise move. She sure as shit doesn’t step back, push the door wide, and invite me in like all the other times I’ve come over before.
“No beer?” I ask dryly.
The frost in her expression grows, ices over.
Yeah, not my finest moment, but sometimes the smart ass just doesn’t want to stay buried.
“What are you doing here, Damon?” she asks.
“You going to let me in?”
“It’s late.” The door closes an inch. “We can talk tomorrow.”Or never.Though she doesn’t speak the last two words aloud. I just read them in her furious expression. But when she goes to shut the door, I react without really thinking, catching the panel before it latches, slowly pushing it inward.
She fights me for a second, but I’m stronger and, though she’s stubborn as shit, she’s not as stubborn as I am in this moment.
I don’t want to move fast and risk the door hitting her.
But I’m going to win this battle. So, I keep pushing, gaining inch by slow inch until the door is open wide enough for me to push inside.
“Why are you?—”
I close the door behind me, throw the lock, and lean back against it.
She clamps her mouth closed, a muscle flickering in her cheek, but she doesn’t argue further, just spins on her heel and takes off for the kitchen.
I follow uninvited, figuring that I’m in for a penny at this point so I may as well be in for a pound, and reach the kitchen just as she slams the door to the fridge closed and turns with a beer in hand. Withonebeer in her hand.
Right, I guess that answers my earlier question.
No beer for me.
She moves to the counter, yanks open a drawer, and pulls out a bottle opener.
Pop!
The cap hits the trash and then she wraps her fingers around the neck of the bottle, lifts the beer to her lips, and drinks deeply.
I ignore the pulse in my dick at the sight of those plump lips wrapped around the top of the bottle, ignore that I want it wrapped around other things, and move to her, not stopping until the toes of my shoes are against the toes of hers.
Her eyes are wide, but the ice doesn’t melt.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
A crack in that exterior, surprise flickering through the emerald depths. But she doesn’t reply, just sips from the bottle.
“I was out of line,” I go on. “I shouldn’t have pressed you, not before the game.”
“Just another time,” she mutters, eyes sparking with frustration as she tips back the bottle again.
I lean forward, snag the bottle from her.
“Hey!” she snaps.
I ignore her and down the last of it, the cool bite of the brew hitting the perfect spot. I look at the label, note the local brewery, and file that bite of knowledge away. Then I set the bottle aside, taking advantage of that movement to cage her in between my body and the counter.
