Page 150 of Tell Me Something True

He wore a pair of snug faded jeans and an Ohio State T-shirt that clung to his chest, the short, tight sleeves accentuating the definition of his arms. His dark hair was wavy and damp from the rain that had been falling steadily all day, and mussed as if he’d run his fingers through it. The whiskers on his cheeks and chin thicker and darker and sexier than they’d been last night.

He wasn’t helping matters, either, standing there looking nervous, his dark gaze scanning her face as if he was committing her features to memory.

As if he was worried this was going to be the last time he’d get the chance to see her.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

She wanted to refuse him. She really did. Despite all evidence to the contrary, she wasn’t a glutton for punishment, a masochist, or an idiot.

But she was foolish.

Foolish enough to still want something out of her reach.

Smart enough not to admit it. To tell herself the reason she stepped aside and opened the door wide was because it was hot in the stairway, and standing there with the door open was letting out the air her A.C. had worked so hard to cool.

The relief on his face was so pronounced, so grateful, she had to shut her eyes against it lest she soften more than she already had.

If this kept up, she’d be nothing more than a puddle of goo on the floor.

He picked up a red canvas tote she hadn’t noticed next to his feet then brushed past her, stepping into her narrow kitchen, his big, broad body and the woodsy scent of his cologne invading her space.

Taking it over.

Part of her wanted to shove him right back out into the hall and slam the door.

Another part wanted to drag him through her apartment, force him to roll on the floor, flop to and fro on the couch, and lay spread eagle on her bed to capture his scent even more.

To keep it for herself for as long as she could.

She shut the door then leaned against the counter. Wished she’d taken a moment to pull a brush through her hair before she’d opened the door instead of leaving it in a messy bun. That she had on mascara and lipstick and was dressed in something other than a pair of short, snug bike shorts and a boxy, faded Steelers tee that fell off her shoulder and covered her ass.

And she really, really wished she had on a bra.

Her nipples were altogether too happy to see Miles, tightening to stiff peaks. Poking the soft, thin material of her shirt.

She crossed her arms.

“Here,” he said quietly, holding out the red tote to her.

She frowned at it. Kept her arms crossed. “What is it?”

“A retractable fire escape ladder.”

“What?”

He blushed, pink washing under his skin, giving him a rosy glow.

It was one of the most appealing sights she’d ever seen. Almost as good as the way he’d looked down at her after he’d fucked her mouth, like a man possessed, his lids at half-mast, his mouth slack with lust, the lines of his face etched with need, his breathing ragged.

His expression a mix of awe and gratitude. Tenderness and reverence.

“It’s a twenty-five-foot retractable fire escape ladder,” he said, as if adding more detail about the ladder somehow made his intentions clear.

“Okay. And you’re here, with a twenty-five-foot retractable fire escape ladder, because…?”

“I want to apologize. For last night.”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t try and make what happened last night into something you regret. Don’t try and take back the power you gave me. That you trusted me with.”

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