* * *
He just said home . . . but I thought he lived in a hotel. I tried not to connect the dots because that would complicate things and that’s not what this was. But I had to say something . . . I put my hand on his arm. “Hey, if you don’t want to go home, if you can’t, you can stay here. All day if you want.”
He studied my eyes for a long moment before he shook his head. “Nah, it’s fine. Thank you. But he’ll cool down. It’s just . . .complicated.”
I rubbed his arm. “Well, my offer stands. You can stay here. I have to duck out for a few hours, but I don’t mind. You’d have the place to yourself to decompress and avoid him.”
He pinched my chin, his smile creeping back into place. “Thank you. You’re really sweet. But honestly, it’s fine. Thank you.”
That twinge of sadness was back that just killed me. So then, because my brain was stuck in first gear while my mouth was gliding along in fifth, I said, “I’m free on Wednesday night. If you’re bored, or lonely, or horny.”
“Wednesday night, huh?”
That gleam in his eye told me he wasn’t opposed. “After eight.”
“Mm, I have a busy week this week,” he allowed. “But I could be looking for some stress relief by Wednesday night.”
I laughed. “In all fairness, I think we established that eight days was too long. So four is much safer. And I will allow for just one round on Wednesday night and two on Friday night. If you still want to come over on Friday, that is.”
His eyes widened and he fought a smile. “Oh. You will allow that? How considerate.”
I shrugged. “I thought so.”
He took a second to consider it. “Is this a new arrangement moving forward? Or just a this-week-only thing?”
Well, originally it was just a one-off thing, but now he’d mentioned a more permanent thing. “How about we see how it works? I mean, are we going back to Friday nights or does Saturday work better for you?”
“Friday night, normally. Or Saturday night. My social calendar isn’t exactly thumping right now. Most of my friends are in relationships, and I have my business . . . plans. So that’s keeping me pretty busy. So basically, I’m free most nights . . . is the point I was trying to make.”
His little ramble just made him more adorable. It didn’t help that he was still only wearing a towel.
“Okay then. So,” I prompted. “How about we leave it as Friday nights, or possibly Saturdays if we have something on, and maybe Wednesdays if we have a certain itch that needs scratching.”
“But just so I’m clear, because I’d hate to disappoint you. The weekly quota is three rounds of sex. So Wednesday will count as one.” He counted on his fingers. “Weekends is two.”
Laughing, I leaned in and kissed him. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d be happy with one.”
“But you’d be really happy with three.”
I palmed his half-hard dick. “Three rounds of this? Yes, please.”
He grunted low in his throat. “Exactly how sore are you?”
I bit my lip.
His eyes were dark as he looked me up and down. “And it would technically be round four in twenty-four hours and I hate to think what you might expect of me next time—”
His words died right there when I pulled at his towel, dropped it to the floor, and knelt on it in front of him. I wasted no time in finishing him off, and when he was done—and when I was sure he could see and walk—I led him to my bathroom.
“What about you?” he asked, aiming to undo my jeans.
“Oh no, that was just for you. But you can think of all the ways to make it up to me on Wednesday. Right now, I have to go. Use my shower, whatever you need.” Looking in the top drawer, I found a new toothbrush, still in its box. “For you. Leave it here, in case you fall asleep again.”
He took it like I’d handed him a wedding ring. “Oh. Thanks.”
God, it was just a toothbrush. A practical hygiene tool. No big deal. Right?
“Well, my sister will kill me if I’m late. So I have to go,” I said. “Please just pull the front door shut behind you.”
He nodded woodenly. “Um . . . thanks. For not being weird about me staying the night. And for breakfast. And for what you just did to me in your kitchen.”
“Oh, that was my pleasure,” I murmured.
He took my chin in his hand and swiped his thumb across my bottom lip. His gaze followed his thumb, then drew up to my eyes, like he was mesmerised. “You are . . .”
I swallowed hard. “I am what?”
He shook his head and dropped his hand. “I will be here on Wednesday, eight o’clock.”
Christ. This was getting absurd. As if my heart being a traitor wasn’t bad enough, now my lungs wouldn’t work and my feet were stuck to the floor. “Good,” I managed to say. “Don’t be late.”
He laughed, and I left him to it. I needed some distance, and a day with my family was as close to a bucket of cold water as I could yet.
I pulled up out the front of Susannah’s place and she came out before I even had the engine off. I was expecting her to roast me for being ten minutes late but she didn’t. “Is Jad not coming?” I asked.
“God no. I actually like him, Michael. Why would I subject him to lunch with our parents?”
I laughed at that. “Fair enough.”
She eyed me for a second. “What’s different?”
“What do you mean?”
She scanned my face, my hair, my eyes. “Something’s different.”
I ignored the blush on my cheeks. “No it’s not.”
“Oh my god. Is it Mr Nameless? Does he have a name yet?”
Fuck.
“Well, I’m sure he does have a name . . .”
“But you don’t know it. Still.”
“No, I do not.” I wasn’t telling her that he knew my first name. God. I’d be bleeding out my ears before we got out of the suburb if I told her that.
“And how’s the uncomplicated aspect going?”
I sighed and dug the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. “It’s . . . complicated.”
She didn’t say anything, and when I looked at her, she reached over and patted my leg.
Before she could say, ‘I told you so,’ I blurted out, “He’s just perfect. He’s sweet and funny and hot as fucking hell. So yes, uncomplicated is going just about as well as you’d expect. Because now I think we’re seeing each other twice a week, and he spent the night, and we ordered dinner, and I’m having serious problems trying to keep things uncomplicated when he just went right ahead and landed, with both feet, in complicated territory.” I took a deep breath. “And that’s both feet in Alexander McQueen boots, mind you.”
Susannah smiled. “I’m happy for you.”
“You’re happy that my life is falling apart and everything’s a disaster?”
She laughed. “It’s not falling apart and it’s not a disaster, Michael. Sounds to me like you’re falling in love.”
I opened my mouth to argue—outraged, defiant, horrified—but I couldn’t find the words. Well, nothing intelligent anyway.