"Atlas," Rush explained.
"The brother who never stays in town for long?"
"That's the one. He comes home and makes us some drawings of the places he's seen."
"He should sell these."
"He's been told," Rush agreed. "Repeatedly. He's a stubborn-ass. No ambition either. He just wants to explore and then show us what he saw. Then disappear again. Before you ask," Rush went on, shooting me a smirk, "No. Art is not a family trait. The rest of us can't draw for shit. No one ever wants to be on my team for Pictionary," he added, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked boyish and bashful. As if I needed more reasons to like the man.
"I'll be on your team on Pictionary. I mean, we will lose. I can't draw a straight line. But we will lose splendidly," I told him, shooting him a hopeful smile.
"And we'd kick everyone else's asses in Scattergories," he agreed, making my heart dance around happily at the idea of him seeing us doing that. Playing board games. With his family.
"Oh, they'd go down," I agreed, bumping my hip into his playfully.
"This is the part where I am supposed to give you a tour," he said a second later, turning away from the canvases. "This seems pretty self-explanatory," he went on, waving out toward the open space that served as the living and kitchen area. He didn't have a traditional dining room table, but he did have a black console table pushed up against a wall across from the main part of the kitchen with two chairs butted up against it. I imagined, like my dining set, it only got used when he had company.
"Then through here," he went on, leading me over toward the small hall, "we have a something they have the audacity to call a spare bedroom," he told me, opening the door to reveal a room that was, admittedly, more of a large closet than a bedroom. He had various things stored there in the somewhat laissez-faire, haphazard way men tended to store things. Half-collapsed boxes overflowing with old clothes butted up against a set of matching luggage. There were skis, a surfboard, and various sports equipment—balls, kettle bells, even a yoga mat.
"Yeah," he said when he saw me eye the yoga mat. "Not my purchase or my idea. I fucked up my back a few years back while attempting surfing for the first —and last—time. One of the girls suggested yoga. I figured I would give it a try."
"Not a fan?" I asked, interested only because it involved him. As for me, the concept of exercising was as foreign as giving up carbs.
"I might have fixed my back, but I threw out my shoulder trying to get out of one of the positions."
"So this is the place where your grand ideas for starting new workout regimens goes to die?" I asked.
"Something like that," he agreed, chuckling. "Though, I haven't tried the skies. Those were a Christmas gift from Atlas who spent a whole winter on the slopes once. I had every intention of going, but..."
"Life," I supplied.
"Exactly. Some day."
"Maybe you will take that road trip to somewhere snowy and try them out."
"Maybe," he agreed, looking over at me, eyes going soft. "And maybe you'd come with me."
"I mean, I would go. But, yeah, you don't want to see me on skies. Like... you saw how much I struggled with heels. And you think I could strap a plank of wood to my feet, and still be able to walk?" I asked, wincing. "But I would enjoy the heck out of the lodge, drinking hot chocolate by the fire. That sounds amazing. Speaking of books," I said, looking around the room, then back at the living room, "where are all of yours?"
"Oh, Peyton takes them. Peyton is," he started, letting out a chuckle, "this is where shit gets a little confusing. Peyton is the sister to Autumn who..."
"Is the wife of Eli. I have a pretty good memory," I told him. "Autumn owns the sex store. Peyton is a source of endless amusement."
"That's putting it lightly. But yeah. She's a librarian. So she takes them off my hands. I'm not someone who re-reads, so there never seemed to be a reason to keep old books around. Alright. This is the bathroom," he said, closing the storage room, waving across the hall.
It was nicer than mine. Modern like the rest of the building, the bathroom had a walk-in glass shower stall with a black window grid pattern on it. He even had one of those neat faucets where the water came down off the handle like a waterfall.
"This is fancy," I declared. "But not having a bathtub is a sacrilege."
"I don't think I've had a bath since I was a kid. But You in a tub? I can get behind that," he said, the charm something that seemed to come so easily to him. And me, so unaccustomed to it, lapped it right up. "And, finally," he said, moving the few feet to the end of the hall, opening the door, "my bedroom," he said.
Much like the rest of the apartment, there were the same gray walls, the same black side tables, a matching dresser.
But what stood out was his king-sized bed with its black velvet tufted headboard. It, paired with the comfortable-looking black comforter looked decadent and sexy.
"Got the design idea from a book," he admitted as I stood there admiring it. "She was a designer, he was the owner of the hotel. They fucked in damn near every room she worked on."
"Oh, I think I read that one!" I said, slapping him in the chest. "The one where the concierge is the one stalking her. And the hero catches him trying to force himself on her and beats him so badly there is blood all over the elevator?"
"That's the one," he agreed, smiling. "That one was pretty fucking hot, I'm not going to lie."
"And inspiring," I agreed, waving a hand to the bed."
"In many ways," Rush agreed, reaching out, snagging my hip, pulling me close until my front was flush with his.
His other hand rose, sliding down my jaw as his head lowered, his lips claiming mine.
It was tentative at first, giving me an out. An out was the last thing I wanted, though.
My hands lifted, tracing up his sides, over his shoulders, wrapping around the back of his neck, crushing my front to his as my lips got more eager, demanding more from him.
With a low rumbling sound in his chest, he gave me it.
Hard.
Hungry.
His lips brushed into mine before his teeth nipped my lower lip hard enough for a whimper to escape me, giving him the chance to slip inside, his tongue toying with mine.
His hands slid down to cup my ass, pulling me up to my tiptoes, then pushing my pelvis against him, his hardness pressing into my stomach.
A thrill moved through my system as his lips ripped from mine, his head moving downward, lips pressing into my neck as his hands slipped down, moving up under my skirt, then cupping my ass over the barely-there baby pink panties Fiona had picked out for me.
That rumbling noise moved through his chest again, vibrating into mine as his tongue traced over the sensitive skin of my neck.
Impatient, one of his hands slipped from my ass, slid between my thighs, pressing against my cleft.
"Already wet for me," he rumbled before sealing his lips over mine again. His fingers pressed into my clit, his lips swallowing the sound of my moan as the tremble racked my body.
It didn't matter that he had touched me just a few nights before, it felt like the first time; I was aching for it, dying for more of it, for more of him.