I stared at the bag, then at him. “Why?”
“Because we’re going to my place,” he said, his voice dropping into that authoritative tone he’d been using all week. “And before you start—it’s been four years, Sky. Four years of me coming to you. Four years of me being a guest in your space, leaving when you’re tired of me or staying until you decide you’ve had enough.”
He made a turn, heading into a gentrified part of town.
“Today. You’re going to see where I sleep, where I think, and where I’ve been wanting you to be a permanent part of for years.”
My heart did that stupid, involuntary skip. In four years, I’d never asked where he lived. I’d told myself it was because I didn’twant the baggage, but the truth was, about two years in, I started feeling scared that if I saw his life, I’d want to make myself a permanent fixture in it.
He pulled into the gate of a modern industrial loft building overlooking the water. It was all glass, steel, and “I’m a successful man” energy.
“We’re here,” he said, killing the engine.
I looked at the building, how much money did he make as a chef? This place was nice.
I looked back at my laptop bag in the seat. For an author who wrote about fearless women falling for the perfect man, I was terrified to get out of the car.
If I had been one of my characters, I would have reached for the door handle, but Zio’s hand would have caught mine—his palm hot, his grip light. He would have devoured me with his eyes and growled.
“Sky,” his voice would have dropped to that register that made my thighs ache. “Once you cross this threshold, the old rules are dead. You aren’t just a guest. You’re the reason I built this.”
I would have stepped out of the truck, my heels clicking a rhythmic beat against the pavement. The lobby would have been all cold marble and dim lights, the perfect stage for the heat rolling off us. In the elevator, he wouldn’t have touched me—not yet. He would have just stood there, taking up all the space. I would be filled with lust and anticipation.
The doors would have slid open to the loft, but I wouldn’t have seen the view. I would have only seen him.
He would have dropped the keys on the counter, the sound echoing in the silence. Then he would have been behind me, hischest against my back, his breath hot against the shell of my ear making my pussy quiver.
“Four years,” he would have whispered, his hands sliding under the hem of that borrowed T-shirt, finding the bare skin of my waist. “Four years of wondering what you’d look like in my light.”
He would have turned me around, his mouth crashing onto mine. It wouldn’t have been gentle. It would have been a claim. I would have jumped and wrapped my legs around his waist, and the laptop bag would have hit the floor, forgotten. He would have had enough money to buy me another.
But that wasn’t what happened.
I called his name. “Zio,” I said softly sounding terrified.
“Don’t,” he interrupted, reaching over to cup the back of my neck. “Don’t think too hard, Sky. Don’t try to talk yourself out of this. Just walk through the door, Sky, and be with me.”
Chapter Twelve
Day Eleven and Twelve
Zio
The second the loft door shut behind us, something locked into place in my chest. A deep, solid click. Like a bone finally setting right after being broke for years.
She was in my space.
Four years of waiting at her threshold, of being a guest at her house, of leaving my scent on her sheets. She stood in my foyer, looking scared—she was funny—clutching her laptop bag like a shield. Her eyes did a frantic lap of the room, taking in the concrete, the steel.
“It’s very gray,” she said.
“It’s concrete,” I corrected, kicking off my shoes. “Your shoes come off.”
She obeyed, kicking out of my oversized Nike slides, then peeling off her socks. The sight of her bare feet on my floor did something to me. A primitive, satisfying click in the back of my skull. Mine. Here.
I took her bag in my hand and led her to the desk by the window. I’d set it up a year ago, after she’d drunkenly complained about writing in her living room with a window that faced a brick wall.I need to see a horizon,she’d slurred.How else do I write about them...?
“You put a flower here for me and remembered orchids are my favorite?” she said, staring at it.
