I flick my gaze from him to my phone before I type.
Me: I’m considering my options.
And it’s true; I am.
A part of me wants to stop feeling right now. The pain of knowing what’s happening with my mother—he can make those feelings disappear, at least for a short amount of time. Because when I’m with him, he consumes me.
Arlo: Get out of the car, sweetheart.
I read his message again, and I know I’m frowning. He knows I hate being called that. But he does it to tease me. He loves to tease.
Me: No. I’m leaving.
I send it and then watch as he reads it. A small smile plays on his lips before he slides his phone into his pocket and proceeds to walk out to the car. He comes to the back door, pulls it open, and then he locks his dark eyes on me, looking way too fucking good.
“Hello, sweetheart. Miss me?” He waggles his brows.
I clench my jaw as I stare at him. “Miss you?” I scoff. “No, I didn’t. Now, shut my door so I can leave.”
He grins and then climbs in and shuts the door behind himself. Turning to face me, he asks, “Where are we going?”
“You do realize you’re supposed to be the sane one, right? It’s basically your job.”
Matty gapes at us through the rearview mirror but doesn’t say a word.
“With you, my sanity goes out the window. Now, can we please get out of the car so we don’t fuck in front of your driver? Unless that’s what you’re into.” He winks, and Matty coughs from the front seat.
I give Matty an apologetic smile as I say, “I’m sorry, Matty. I’ll message you when I’m ready.”
Arlo’s expression is triumphant as he opens the door and slides out, then waits, offering me his hand.
“She won’t need you. I’ll get her home,” Arlo tells Matty, still holding his hand out for me.
Do I take it?
Do I get out of this car?
Is this another line I shouldn’t be crossing?
Every time I cross a line with him, I spiral, thinking I’ve done something bad. But each and every time he’s touched me, I lose myself in him.
So I take his fucking hand, which only makes his lips lift higher as I slide out of the car, and my heels hit the pavement.
“It’s only sex,” I tell him.
He doesn’t let go of my hand as he pulls me to the open front door. When we’re inside, I go to take my heels off, but he says, “You can keep them on.” I ignore him and slip them off because his floors are pristine, and I don’t want to be the one to dirty them.
He shuts the door behind me, and I glance around as I follow him further inside. The walls are made of exposed brick, and a large metal-framed window offers a magnificent view. The space is flooded with natural light, which contrasts well with the dark tones. He has an oversized sofa with plenty of pillows, making it appear to be very comfy. The books, candles, and house plants give it a much homier feel than my sterile apartment. The room is both modern and cozy.
“You don’t bring anyone here, do you?” I ask as he drops my hand and heads into the kitchen. It has dark wooden countertops and open shelves filled with glass jars and bottles. He grabs two glasses, placing them on the counter before he goes to the wine fridge to select a bottle, opening it as he looks at me.
“I do not. This is my personal space,” he says as he pours the wine. “Did you visit your mother today?” I narrow my eyes at him. “You visit her more on the weekends.”
“Are you tracking me?” I question.
“No, just observant. Plus, I can see the visitor list at your mother’s facility.” He winks.
“Oh, yes, when you looked into me.” I roll my eyes and step up to the counter. “I take it that was done by your detective friend, the one who saved you from spending the night naked in a cell.” He pushes a glass my way, but I don’t take it. “I didn’t come here to drink. I came here to fuck.” I smile at him.
