She expelled a breath on a smile as she shrugged her jacket off and let it fall to the floor. “No thanks. I’m good.”
He leaned back slightly so he could look in her eyes.
“Why this?” he murmured. “Why me?”
Her eyes met his in the light of his small entryway. Her lips tipped though the smile from a moment ago had left her eyes. “Have you ever looked in a mirror?”
He blew out a breath. He knew he was attractive. Why pretend he didn’t? He’d be a shitty detective if he didn’t notice the looks women gave him, the opportunities that presented because of his face and nothing else. But he’d never used it to his advantage. Charles Hartsman had done that, and he admitted he had some hang-ups about the fact that he looked just like the devil who’d passed along his genes, but he shut those thoughts down for the moment. He offered her a slight smile. “There’s gotta be a better reason than that.”
“Does there?” she asked. They stared at each other, and he couldn’t decipher what was in her gaze. Hope? Challenge? That uncertainty he thought he’d spotted in the Uber? Or were her eyes simply shining with the same desire that must be in his own? He tried to shrug off the disappointment her answer had elicited. He had hoped for more than that. Who are you?
He leaned in and kissed her slowly, softly, bringing his hands to her hair and weaving them through. Silk. Just like I thought. Your hair feels like silk. It seemed as though she was tilting slightly, so he took his hands from her hair, reaching down and weaving his fingers through hers, holding her steady, trying to slow things down. She melted into him, the kiss going deeper, more intimate than the ones they’d shared in the Uber or the elevator. More intimate somehow because there were no hands involved. Just breath and lips and tongues, and the steady thumping of their hearts. When he pulled from her lips, he whispered hoarsely, “I want this to be more than just a sloppy hookup.”
“Then let’s not make it sloppy.”
“I mean, I’d like to know who you are.”
Her eyes grew softer and she moved a piece of hair off his forehead. She started to say something and then changed her mind, leaning toward him again, their mouths meeting. A minute later she was pulling him down the hallway. “Which one?” she asked, and it took him a second to realize she was asking where his bedroom was.
“Second door on the right.”
Clothes came off as they moved toward his room, her shirt first as she fumbled with the small buttons, finally pulling it free, followed by his shirt, then her jeans falling to the floor and he stepped over them, entering his room. She flipped the light switch and closed the door behind them. When she glanced behind her, he cringed at the sight she was looking at: his unmade bed, sheets hanging onto the floor, pillows everywhere, clothes strewn haphazardly. “Sorry, I didn’t expect . . . this.” You. “We’ll just pretend you didn’t see that,” he said jokingly, flipping off the harsh overhead light.
As the room plunged into darkness, she tensed in his arms, a small sound of distress coming from her throat. She reached for the switch and flipped it again, her expression strained and fearful in the sudden light. Reed frowned, caught off guard, but she shook her head, laughing softly as she leaned in and kissed him. “I want to see you,” she said, her voice a throaty whisper.
He hesitated for a moment, but then turned and walked to his dresser where there was a small lamp. He clicked it on and then tilted the shade toward the wall so that there was just a hazy glow of dim, yellow light in the room. “Good?” he asked, when he returned to where she stood and flicked off the overhead light once again. She bobbed her head, offering him a smile, her gaze moving down his bare chest. She ran her hands over his pectorals, down his abs, causing him to hiss in a breath. Without meeting his gaze, she unbuttoned the top of his jeans and reached inside, stroking him, both of them watching as her thumb smeared the bead of liquid on his tip. He was helpless. Mindless. He’d do anything