When the knock came again, she blew out a breath and slipped out of bed. Because nothing good ever happened at three in the morning, she grabbed the fireplace poker on the way to the front door. She looked through the peephole and froze.
Mateo.
And he didn’t look thrilled. Huh. Okay, so maybe he’d minded her sneaking out. But really, he should be thanking her. She was a restless sleeper and she liked to sleep diagonally across the bed and—
“I know you’re in there, Charlotte,” came his sleep-roughened voice. Which for the record, was almost as good as his sex-roughened voice. “I can hear you breathing.”
That actually couldn’t be true, because the minute he’d spoken, she’d stopped breathing.
“Charlotte.”
With a grimace, she opened the door.
Mateo took in the sight of her. She was wearing one of his T-shirts, which she’d stolen. Nothing else. Well, except the fireplace poker. Not to mention her undoubtedly defensive attitude. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” she asked.
“Good question.” He stood there in the freezing night wearing nothing but a pair of sweat bottoms, looking rumpled and roughly sexy—and good God, was that a bite mark on his neck?
She’d bitten him too?
“Normally,” he said, “I prefer to share breakfast with the person I just slept with. But then again, you didn’t sleep. Instead, you waited for me to fall asleep and then sneaked out. In the middle of the night. While it was snowing. Without a coat or your shoes. Without so much as a note.” He gave a long once-over. “What kind of a southern woman doesn’t leave a missive, Charlotte?”
Guilt swamped her and she sagged, dropping the poker. “I know, I’m sorry, it was awful of me, but I didn’t know what to do.”
Pushing off from the doorjamb, he took a step toward her, still not touching her with anything other than that piercing dark gaze. “You didn’t know what to do,” he repeated, sounding like he was trying to make sense of that.
She wanted to take a few steps back from him because she needed thinking room, which was hard with his larger-than-life presence filling up the entire foyer. But she didn’t move away because she didn’t want him to think she was afraid of him.
She wasn’t.
She was afraid of her own heart, of what that heart wanted. “I didn’t know what to do,” she said again, softer now.
“Okay, then let me make a suggestion.” He took another step until they were toe-to-toe. Lifting a hand, he traced a finger along her jaw. “After we make love, after we have pillow talk and cuddle, after you do that sexy-as-hell thing where you curl into me, murmur my name in that sensual little sated sigh, and close your eyes . . . you don’t sneak out into the winter night wearing, near as I can tell, next to nothing. Instead, you talk or yell, laugh, cry . . . hell, climb on top of me and ride me like a bronco again, whatever you want. Sleep is also a good option.”
“I didn’t ride you like a bronco.”
He gave her a heated look, which made her blush. He was right. She’d ridden him like a bronco and had practically yelled giddyup while she was at it. “Okay, one time.”
“And after?”
Damn. Yeah. After, she’d curled into him and closed her eyes, trying to soak up his warm, hard body and the way it held hers, marveling at how he had a way of making her feel safe and secure. “But staying the night, that’s what girlfriends do.”
“Yeah. And?”
“I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Really?” He shifted in closer now, so that they were sharing air. Like they had when they’d had their mouths fused to each other, sharing deep, sensual, erotic kisses . . . “Because only a few hours ago it felt a hell of a lot like you were my girlfriend. Like when you—”
On a choked laugh, she reached up and covered his mouth with her hand. “Don’t.” But it was too late. Memories washed over her, his worshiping every inch of her body, her turning the tables and doing the same to him, knowing she might never be able to get enough of him . . .
“Charlotte.” His voice was terrifyingly gentle as he removed her hand from his mouth and held on to it. “Maybe we should talk.”
“It’s three thirty in the morning.”
He just looked at her.
She squirmed. “Talking makes things real. And real things . . . well, they end, Mateo.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Stop running.”
“I’m not trying to.” She tossed up her hands. “Look, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a handful.”
“That’s okay, I’ve got two hands.”
She smiled, but her eyes also filled. “I told you from the very beginning,” she managed around a rough throat. “I don’t date. And I don’t sleep in other people’s beds either. I . . .” She broke off to breathe. “I can’t sleep in other people’s bed. And you know why.”
His eyes softened as he reached for her, sudden understanding in every line of his body now.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really am, but—”
“It’s okay. It’s okay, Charlotte,” he murmured, slipping a hand in hers. “We could always try your bed.”
She stared down at their entwined fingers, running the pad of her thumb over his calloused palm. She shivered, remembering some of the things his hands had done to her, all incredibly, amazingly perfect. “I don’t sleep well if someone else is in my bed.”
“Then lucky for you I don’t mind sleeping on the floor. Did it for most of my premed college years actually. Couldn’t afford my own room, so I couch-surfed. It was better than a park bench.” He reached back out the door and picked up something he’d apparently left on the porch before knocking.
A rolled-up sleeping bag. “This thing has seen a lot,” he said. “Your floor will be luxurious accommodations, trust me.”
She stared at the sleeping bag and realized . . . he’d known her problem all along. Known and understood. And had come up with a work-around. As if maybe she truly, honestly did mean something to him.
“My floor is hardwood,” she said inanely.
His eyes twinkled, but he didn’t smile. “Doesn’t bother me, as long as it doesn’t bother you.” With his free hand, he tipped her face up to his. “Does it bother you, Charlotte? That I want to sleep near you? That I want to be with you?”
Staring at him for a long beat, she slowly shook her head.
He smiled, stepped all the way inside, and closed the door at his back before taking her hand and just looking at her.
Letting her make the move, she realized. So she led him upstairs, her heart pounding in her chest and in her ears. Incredibly aware of him at her back, she brought him inside her room.
He shut the door, walked to her bed, and pulled back her covers, gesturing for her to get in. “You’re cold,” he murmured, “wearing only that stolen shirt.”
“Borrowed.”
“What’s mine is yours. Besides, I love the way you look in it.” He pulled the covers up to her chin, planted a hand on either side of her head and leaned in to kiss her softly. “’Night.”