“Scratched cornea,” he says. “Went to the clinic after you ran away.”
“Oh.” I swallow. “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
It’s not a real eye patch. It’s gauze taped to his head. But with his dark shock of hair, his broad shoulders cradled by my pillows, and my saucy reading material resting on that belly I have daydreams about… He’s the fucking Pirate Duke incarnate.
Goddamn it.
I lick my lips. “Why— Why are you here?”
“We didn’t get to finish our conversation.” He sounds almost polite. Deceptively so.
“It’s late. We’re both tired. I told you. I’m sorry about before. I’m a mess.” I’m loitering at the threshold of my bedroom like I’m a visitor, which I hate, so I step fully into the room. “You sure you hurt your eye and not your head? Seems like you’re lost. Your bedroom is ten feet to the west.”
“My apartment is east of you. Come here.”
“But—”
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands. “Can you come here?”
“Why?”
“What are you going to do? Stand there all night?”
I cross my arms. “We’ll cross that bridge while you live under it.”
He huffs out a laugh and approaches slowly. Prowling.
Then he’s standing in front of me, and I’m tipping my head to look up at him.
“What do you want?” I don’t mean it to, but it comes out in a whisper.
He picks up a lock of my hair, running it through his fingers, feeling the texture of it. He smells like crisp soap, a hint of pine, and the promise of something very bad. He’s looking down at the strands of hair he’s playing with. And then he runs that lock gently up my neck. Goose bumps erupt up and down my arms.
“I have a theory,” he says.
My heart is beating like a tin-pan symphony inside my chest. “What are you talking about?”
“I think you’re using therapy as an excuse. A wedge to avoid getting involved with me.”
I can’t catch my breath. His voice is soft, weaving its way around me, tugging me closer.
“No,” I murmur, my heart contracting with the knowledge he’s right.
He leans forward…and brushes my nose with his. “Yes.”
I blink. He’s looking at me with that inscrutable mix of detached observation and amusement. My lips feel heavy. I need his mouth on mine. “What—” My tone almost sounds desperate. “What is happening right now?”
“Whatever you let happen. You want me. I want you. We like each other. God knows why, but we do. I’ve already seen the worst of you, and I want more. You’ve seen the worst of me. We’ll take it slow. And every time you get the urge to bail, I need you to remember that I live next door. You can’t run far.”
I’m going to hyperventilate. I want him to get the hell out of my place so I can sort this all out in my head. I want to push him back on that bed and mount him like a racing jockey.
“‘You can’t run far.’ That is so romantic,” I say.
“Breaking balls is better than breaking hearts. I’ll take it.”
I choke out a laugh, still trying to regulate my breathing, still resisting the urge to rub up on him like a cat in heat. The pull to touch him, to be near him, is more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s terrifying.
While I’m wrestling with myself, he crushes my reserve with a few firm words. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
