Atticus frowned. “How’d that happen?”
“Because one of the rooms has a king-size, not two queens like they thought. I told him we’d share that one.”
He knew he couldn’t hide the shock on his face.
“Unless you don’t want to.”
Atticus wanted it more than anything, but he thought Slade was pushing him away. He’d been doing it all day.
“Are you drunk?” he heard himself ask.
Slade frowned. “Why do you fuckin’ care?”
Ouch.
He’d touched a sore spot.
What he probably should’ve been thinking about was the fact that Slade had pretty much told everyone that they were sleeping together. After all, he’d offered for them to share a room. What else would they possibly think?
Atticus decided to answer Slade’s question honestly. “Because I don’t want you hatin’ me more in the mornin’.”
“ I don’t hate you.”
Coulda fooled me.
Atticus stared out at the lights again. He didn’t want to argue with Slade anymore. He still wasn’t sure what the best way was to fix the rift between them. Or even if it could be fixed.
He heard Slade move and exhaled slowly now that he was alone again. Maybe he could sleep out here. It was September, so it wasn’t like he’d wake up with a sunburn from the scorching summer sun. It was humid, sure, but he could deal with that.
“I don’t hate you,” Slade said again, his voice closer.
Atticus jumped from the surprise, but then Slade’s hands were on his shoulders, his long fingers slipping down into the neck of Atticus’s T-shirt.
It felt good.
Too good.
He loved the way this man touched him. He thought about it all the time. No one had ever touched him the way Slade did. As though he felt something, too, when they were skin to skin.
Atticus relaxed back against the chair, silently urging Slade to continue. He did. His fingers grazed his chest and shoulders, then up to his neck.
“I wanna take you to bed, Atticus.”
Jeezus. Atticus wasn’t sure he was going to survive this man. Not only did he run ice cold at times, but there were others—like now—when he ran so hot, it was impossible not to get scalded.
“Are you gonna hate me again in the mornin’?” Atticus asked, his voice barely a gruff whisper.
“No.”
He was lying. Or maybe he wasn’t. Perhaps he truly believed that he wouldn’t, but Atticus knew that wouldn’t be the case when they got home, and Atticus still had the burning desire to see Carson again. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Come on,” Slade urged, taking Atticus’s hand and tugging until he got to his feet.
He followed him through the dark hotel room, past the bedrooms and the large living area where Luca was passed out on the couch. He hadn’t bothered to fold it out.
Slade kept going. Past Killian, who was also asleep, but he’d taken the time to unfold the couch. Past the first bedroom and on to the second. When they walked inside, Slade paused to close and lock the door, then flipped the switch that turned on the small lamps on the bedside tables.
Atticus was nervous. Very much like the first night he’d spent with Slade. He hadn’t been sure what to expect that night, but it hadn’t mattered because he’d caved to Slade’s dominance.
