I squeeze my items to my chest, turning to watch his retreating back enter the house.
He's never openly said anything to the extent of that. Have we both flirted? Sure. Pretty fucking badly? Also yes. But lineshave never been crossed. More work on my part than his, I'm assuming, since the two times we almost kissed resulted in my being the one to pull away.
My steps are quick as I continue down the path that leads to the patio, before opening the glass doors. Grease, bacon and eggs fill the house, with the distant sound of an old rap song.
Jord's voice gets closer until I find him leaning against the wall, flicking a dish cloth over his shoulder with a broad smile on his face.
“Hungry?” He smirks, wagging his brows. I hate him. “Bet you are.”
Asshole.
I pinch a strip of bacon and chew slowly, watching Asher disappear through the back. “What's the deal with him and Camille?”
Jord doesn't hesitate. “She's a friend, never been uploaded by the Lord himself, mainly because his fandom is still all Team Ashvy. By the way, they're all getting antsy that you've not been spotted together much lately. Lucky for you both, the Veilarath Privacy Law is still going strong, but I wouldn't put it past his fans to snap a photo or ten while you're both here.”
She's a friend. Because that makes sense. Because that makesall the sense.
He put me on his profile multiple times, but they were mainly photo dumps, and they were all with subliminal captions that would send Punk into a frenzy of a PR squashing nightmare in order to conceal what she could.
But he hasn't put her on his socials at all…
“So!” Jord claps. “Am I getting laid tonight or what?”
* * *
I knew the night would end like this. Me, home early, and those two, still out partying.
I toss the keys onto the side table and slip off my boots, bracing against the wall to keep steady.
My heart fucking jumps when I spot the outline of someone on the single wing sofa, closest to the fire. His back is bare, turned away from me. He hasn't noticed me yet… maybe I can just—
“How was your night?” The muscles in his back ripple as he leans back, glancing over his shoulder.
“Uneventful.” I take the two steps down into the open-plan living room. “What are you doing up?”
He slouches to the side. “Haven't been sleeping much lately.”
Heat licks at my skin from the fireplace. It should be a distraction, but all it does is remind me that it’s not him doing the licking.
Okay. We’re beginning to be a little ridiculous now.
“Hmph. That's no good.” I snag the whiskey bottle and pour two glasses, setting them on the mantel. Shit. Bad fucking idea. Now I've got a front-row view of all of him. And I meanallof him, considering the only thing between us is a pair of gray sweats hanging low on his hips. I've caught glimpses before—naked, half-naked, more times than I can count. But never after he's flat-out said he wanted to fuck me.
And never while he's watching me like I'm something he wants to devour.
“Your night of drinking wasn't enough?” he asks, nodding toward the glasses.
I snort. “I didn't drink.”
Silence. My fingers graze his when I hand over the glass, and the contact sparks—electric, reckless.
“Ah, right,” he chuckles, taking a sip. “The whole Ivanya-doesn't-get-drunk-around-strangers thing.”
Shrugging, I swallow a gulp. “Some of us don't change that quickly.”
He raises a perfect brow. “That a stab, Venom?”
A strangled snicker escapes me. “I have plenty more. Wanna hear them?”
