Page 84 of A Really Bad Idea

His back rumbles with the laughter, and then he bites my shoulder.

“Ouch!” I hit him in the side.

He rolls over. His cock is glistening with the aftermath of our orgasms.

“For the record, I didn’t come over for sex,” he says. I raise a very suspicious brow. “Well, I was hoping, but I didn’t expect it.”

“You came at me quite aggressively.”

He runs a hand over his mouth. “When you opened the door, you were soaking wet. It took a lot out of me to not get hard.”

I play with the hem of my shirt. He’s always been a flirt, but this new speak is so foreign to me. I still have to get used to it.

He pulls my hand from my face and kisses the palm. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

“I’m not. I’m just … I don’t know what came over me in the kitchen.”

His thumb runs over my lips. “Whatever it was, I loved every second.”

As his mouth takes over mine again, I lose myself in his kiss.

The fever has now broken, and what’s left is a calmness. A warm fervor awakens as he strokes my hair, and I run my fingers over his jaw. My lashes flutter. He’s staring at me, watching me with a quirk to his lips and a crinkle on the sides of his eyes.

He lowers his hand down to the side of my neck and rubs his thumb over my pulse.

I move my hand to his forehead and run my finger over the smooth skin, trailing it down his straight nose and full mouth, past the cleft of his chin, and make a beeline to his chest, laying my hand flat over his skin and feeling the beats pound into my palm.

My gaze holds his as I bite my lip.

“I have to go home. I took a cab straight here from the airport,” he says and leans down to kiss my lips.

I don’t kiss him back.

“Where’s your suitcase?”

“Downstairs with Sal. I told you, I missed you.” He walks out of the room, his ass is full view as he saunters out.

“Oh.” I rise, too. I grab a T-shirt from my drawer and slide it on.

When he returns, he has his clothes in his hands. He takes a seat on the bed and starts to dress.

I’m adjusting my bun as he buttons his shirt, his back to me. I’m thankful for Christian’s willpower. He knows when to call it a day, so we don’t take this too far. Still, watching him get dressed makes me feel tawdry.

“Thank you for fixing my sink,” I say.

He laughs as he runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “It makes me feel good to take care of you.”

“My dining chairs are wobbling. Next time you come over, I’ll hand you an Allen wrench, and you’ll feel fantastic.”

He kisses my forehead, his tie dangling from his neck. “I’d love that.”

I walk him to the door and open it for him. He grabs his suit jacket off the stool and folds it over his arm.

This angsty rumbling of my gut settles in my chest, and I hate it. It’s ridiculous that I can’t talk to him about my feelings. Of all the people I should be able to be totally honest with, it’s him. I shouldn’t be like this with Christian, and I’ve had enough.

“Here’s the thing,” I say, closing the door with my back and leaning against it. “You don’t have to leave.”

His hands halt on his shirt collar as he was adjusting it over his slung tie. He raises his brows. “I don’t?”