I help him out. “Do I get a tour?”
A crooked grin drags up a corner of his mouth. I don’t know if it’s the lingering effect of his kiss, but I suddenly find himgorgeous. He tugs on my hand, helping me into the camper. It doesn’t escape me that he keeps the door open.
It’s sweet even though I want it closed. Again, I almost employ magic to shut it, but that’s a part of me I can’t reveal.
Maybe someday, I’ll be able to.
Maybe someday,hisblood?—
I shut the thought down.
“This is the couch.” He points to the small banquette that hides deep storage space. “My dining table slash desk.” He designates the table with a bump of his chin. He reaches for the handle of his bathroom. “Through here, you’ll find my ensuite.”
“Fancy,” I say around a smile.
His crooked grin grows, and he stabs his fingers through his mussed hair. “Try not to get overwhelmed.” He glances skyward. “Window’s up there. People might rave about starry skies, but I’m more of a cement-and-pipes kind ofguy.”
“I understand the appeal. It’s…trippy.”
He’s downright beaming now.
Until I ask, “Where’s the bed?”
His grin fades in an instant, replaced by a tight, intent focus, first on the latches that keep the Murphy-bed flush to the wall, then on my face. “If I open it, we won’t have any more room to stand.”
I give him a slow nod.
“Are you sure?” His breathing turns shallow,swelling his chest before compressing it.
“That I want to see where you sleep? Yes.”
He blinks hard. Then swallows harder. And then he’s unfastening the latches and easing the mattress down. We have to step farther back until our heels hit the threshold of his trailer.
“There you have it. The place I laze on from midnight to five.”
“Is that all the sleep you get?”
“Sometimes I’ll drop like a fly around ten or take a midday nap in between classes. Depends on my schedule and my level of fatigue.”
“Have many people gotten a tour of your bachelor pad?”
“No. I never bring anyone in here.”
“Not even if they ask to sightsee?”
He pivots to face me. “Electra, I didn’t open my home to you because you asked to come in.”
“Then why did you open your home to me?”
“Because since the moment we met, I haven’t stopped fantasizing about you crossing my threshold.”
“What’s better—the fantasy or the reality?”
“Do you really have to ask?” He cups my cheek and leans over to kiss me again.
His lips are soft, but the way he uses them isn’t. I can’t explain why it thrills me that he’s taking the lead and control from me. Maybe because I’ve spent the last decade obsessively seeking to control everything.
My knees aren’t weak like the heroines from my books, but I pretend they are, and sink onto his bed, making him hinge at the waist. His mouth chases mine before releasing it with a shallow pop.
