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He looked like a man who was trying to swallow a very bitter pill. “Fine,” he said through his teeth. “When would you like to see my apartment?”
“Now is good.”
“Fine,” he gritted out.
And like that we were off. There was a brief moment of conflict when he realized I’d actually come to the show in my robe and underwear. Pissed off anew. In my current mood, I ate it up with a spoon and toppings.
He kept glancing at my robe in the car as though it added a new offense every time he saw it. For all that, it was a silent ride.
We took the garage entrance up to his penthouse, to hide my attire I was sure.
“Would you like the tour?” he asked sarcastically as we emerged from the elevator into his apartment.
“That would be perfect,” I said with the cheer of someone who was spitefully getting their way.
He showed me around. It was big, gorgeous, and sterile.
“Well, is it everything you dreamed?” he asked bitingly.
“I like mine better,” I shot back instantly.
He blinked. “Why?”
“It’s warmer. You can tell a human lives in mine.”
“Well, your opinion is as unwelcome as it is inconsequential.” For all his disdain, his eyes as he said it had gone sensual and drowsy. His bedroom eyes.
He took me to bed like he was devouring me. Like he needed to swallow me whole.
He was marking his territory, nailing my body to his bed, tattooing our sex into his sheets.
He wasn’t gentle, but I didn’t want gentle. I didn’t need it. I needed something else.
It didn’t even start out as desire. It was a more complicated need. It was conquest, domination, rough and hot. And with every touch it became simpler and simpler until it’d resolved itself into the oh so satisfying itch and scratch I was coming to recognize and crave with every pulse of blood pumping through my body.
Afterwards I felt rung out. I felt so relaxed I could’ve curled up into a ball and fallen asleep on the spot, regardless of my location. In fact I started to.
He wasn’t having it. The sex had done nothing to relax him. He was up and pacing two seconds after he dragged his dick out of me, hand pushing his hair back, looking harried and mean.
I just watched him, eyes beginning to drift closed.
“No one said you could sleep here,” he said sharply.
I sat straight up and started looking for my clothes. I was dressed (or barely dressed, as it were) and heading for the door in record time. I should’ve been numb from his rejection, completely immune at this point, but apparently not. I wanted to escape that realization as much as him in that moment.
He stopped pacing to watch me move. He studied me, cursing. “I didn’t mean that,” he said quietly. “Listen—”
I waved that off. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t want to stay, anyway. Good night.”
He followed me through each room and to the door. “You don’t have to—”
I was texting with Chester and I didn’t even glance at my husband. “Chester’s waiting for me downstairs, right outside the elevator. I can see myself out.”
And I did. Though I will say that the way he watched me as I did it was as remorseful of an expression as I’d ever seen him wear.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
