Page 40 of Perfect Praise

“Done,” I chuckle. “And you can do whatever the fuck you want to do. You live here.”

“Not yet. I need time to think of other demands, and I need to consult my sister,” she retorts. Maren narrows her eyes. “Are we just going to sit in the car like children?”

“I’mnot,” I say, knowing full well she won’t either. “I’m thirty.” I’m halfway to the front door when I hear her car door open.

“Stop being a pain in the ass and just go inside,” I say when she stops beside me and shifts back and forth on her feet.

She glances at the key in her hand before shoving it into the lock.

Thirty-seven seconds.

I can’t help myself, and I’m already hard, thinking about her showering in my, well,herbathroom. I want her thinking about me when she sees that bed. When she’s lying down tonight, drifting off. I won’t touch her, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun.

“That’s my good girl,” I whisper over her shoulder.

Her head almost whips back, but she catches herself. I can still see the smile she’s trying to hold back through her hair.

The door swings open.

If Locke wants me hot and bothered, walking around his house with wet underwear just for the fun of it, he’s succeeded.

I gasp as soon as I take a step inside.

Everything is white with black accents and glass on glass on glass. My eyes land first on the curved glass staircase to my right. A sleek white sofa sits in the middle of the living room in front of a huge flat-screen TV.

The kitchen is open to the left with a granite island bigger than my old bedroom. I count six acrylic bar stools lined up along it.

And the far back wall is—shockingly—all glass, two stories high.

Living here must be like a permanent beach vacation without the sand. No wonder Locke just wanted me to come inside.

“Who would ever willingly leave this place?” I say.

“Exactly,” he deadpans. “Where should we build your darkroom?”

My eyes scan the room. It could definitely fit one.

“I haven’t said yes yet,” I argue as Locke’s watch starts beeping. He moves a little too quickly to silence it. My mouth drops open. “Were youtimingme?”

“Technically, I was timing myself.”

“To see how fast you could get me inside?” I guess. “And you won?”

He smirks. “I always win.”

“You do, don’t you?” I say slyly as I brush past him to survey the kitchen.

His eyes follow me intensely, like they’re full of questions, while I run a hand over every smooth, white surface.

“If it means anything, it’s not like I’m always trying to. I just can’t stop myself until I’ve—” He cuts himself off so abruptly I stop walking and turn around. I hit my hip against the corner of the island and wince. Locke swallows, his throat muscles working to bury his next words, his eyebrows furrowed deep with confusion, before he leans a hand on the island. “Well?”

“Well what?” I ask, dizzy from the whiplash, before I realize he’s asking me if I like the house. “Oh. I don’t know. It’s almost too nice.”

He takes a step into me, his fresh air and leather scent surrounding me, and says sternly, “You need a place to stay. I have a place to stay. Accept my help.”

Without breaking eye contact, his thumb finds my hip bone on the first try to soothe the pain that’s pulsing through it.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” I say hesitantly, mostly because I can’t stop imagining what he looks like without a shirt. I’m already a step closer to him, and I don’t know how I ended up here.

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