My hesitation must show on my face because he adds, “It’s fine if you don’t want to.” He rakes a nervous hand through his hair. “I just... don’t want to go back to an empty penthouse again. A penthouse without...you.”
The vulnerability in his voice squeezes my chest.
He just had sex with me on his desk like he was staking a claim. And now he’s asking, not demanding,asking, if he can sleep over at my tiny studio apartment in Astoria.
If I agree, that makes it real. Not just words or promises or “we’ll try.”
Real.
This feels like too much too fast and I know better and every self-preservation instinct I have is screaming at me to pump the brakes.
“When I said we’d try,” I start carefully, “I kind of envisioned... I don’t know. Actual dates? Holding hands? Making out under the stars like normal people first? Not moving in together.”
His expression closes off slightly. “Right. Of course. I just wanted to sleep over. Not move in.”
“I just meant—”God, why is this so hard?“I’ve done the ‘jump in headfirst’ thing before and it ended badly.”
“You’re right.” He takes a step back, and I immediately hate the distance. “It was too much. Bad idea.”
“I didn’t say it was a bad idea—”
“You don’t have to explain.” His voice has gone carefully neutral. “I overstepped. It’s fine.”
It’s not fine. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his shoulders have gone rigid.
Dammit.
Nico’s retreating behind his walls again, assuming the worst.
Why am I being so obstinate about this anyway? It would be kind of nice to have him with me all night. To have him ravage me again. And again. And again.
Fuck it.
“Okay,” I blurt out.
He pauses. “Okay what?”
“Okay, you can come to my apartment,” I tell him. “Tonight. Tomorrow night. Whenever you want.”
He blinks. Then his eyes brighten. “Really?”
There goes my stomach doing that stupid fluttery thing again. “Really.”
His smile is small but genuine. “Thank you.” He opens his mouth again, as if to tell me something more, something important, but he shuts it and points toward the office door. “After you.”
We take the elevator down to the parking garage level. The underground lot is dim, and our footsteps echo loudly on the concrete.
Nico’s Mercedes is parked in its designated spot, and Indira looks up from her phone as we approach. Callahan materializes, his expression neutral despite the fact that it’s nearly midnight and his boss is showing up with his secretary.
“Indira,” Nico says. “We need a ride to Astoria.”
She pockets her phone. “Got it.”
Nico settles in beside me. Callahan takes the front passenger seat, Indira the driver’s seat, and then we’re pulling out of the garage and into the Manhattan night.
This is surreal.
Nico Rossi is coming to my apartment.
