Page 37 of Filthy Sweet

Owen spins, his eyes gliding from the tall ceilings up to the second-story loft, down the wall that I’ve filled with overpriced art, and across the sprawling lounge that opens directly to my kitchen.

“Whoa,” he gasps, then grabs the brick wall. “No more spinning.”

I chuckle and offer him my arm. Owen’s been in a kind of a daze since we fucked, and the nightcap we grabbed at the party didn’t help. His sandy hair is mussed out of place, the top of his shirt is messily undone, and I’m pretty sure his lips are just as pink and puffy now as they were when he pulled them off my dick.

He takes my elbow and tilts his eyes to me. “Thanks.”

“Let’s get you in bed.”

We walk together to the wide stairs that lead up to the loft. “I knew you were doing well,” Owen says. “But damn, Fox. You’re really rich.”

“The Kissing Dirt album sells.”

He laughs. “Sorry, I’m not being cool. You’re probably not supposed to talk about how rich people are when you see their lavish condos for the first time.”

I chuckle. “Who cares about cool?”

“Apparently you,” Owen counters, “since you basically made a career out of it.”

I grunt. “Touché, Dr. Lavigne.”

We pause at the top of the stairs, and he gives me a wide smile. Owen’s hazel eyes sparkle, and I have the urge to cup his cheek and kiss him, soft and slow. He’s getting a little sassy with me, showing more of his personality.

It makes me hard as a fucking rock, but I’ve already made enough of a mess tonight.

“Here’s the bed,” I say, walking straight back. “I’ll get you some water. You need anything else?”

“Oh. I guess something to sleep in?”

I nod to the big oak dresser, which sits directly across from the bed. “Second drawer down. Help yourself.”

When I turn back to him, Owen is close, and again, I have to fight back my instincts, the animal urge that demands I throw him onto the sateen sheets and claw another orgasm out of him.

I’m walking on a goddamn tightrope. There’s no way I’d leave Owen to sleep alone after our hookup. He needs to feel appreciated and taken care of, and I’d rather fuck off and burn down my condo than hurt him. But I have to be honest that I don’t know what in the hell I’m doing right now, or why I feel so torn apart, outside of the guilt that swirls in my gut when I think of his brother.

Owen reaches out and takes my hand, offering me a gentle squeeze. “Thanks again for tonight. And congratulations.”

I arch an eyebrow, the warmth of his touch humming through me. “Congratulations?”

He nods back toward the condo. “All your success. You proved everyone who doubted you wrong.”

The weird feeling inside me gets tighter. “Yeah,” I say roughly, then reach out and cup his face because I can’t fucking stop myself. I drag my fingers across Owen’s jaw, then finally pull back. “Maybe I did.”

Before I do something I regret, I turn and walk away.

My heart is pounding as I get Owen a glass of ice water from the kitchen. I never have anyone sleep over at my place, but right now, it feels so good to know he’s up there, getting himself ready for bed, tired and satisfied.

Guilt about Reggie threatens to intrude, like hooking up with his little brother is inherently a betrayal, but I manage to shake it off and head back upstairs. When I get to my room, Owen is sprawled on top of the blankets, face down and fast asleep. He’s in his T-shirt and a baggy pair of my gray sweatpants, and one foot hangs over the edge of the bed.

I stand there, frozen in place and watching his shoulders rise and fall. I want to finish tucking him in, but I don’t know if that’s creepy. Instead, I strip quietly to my boxers, crawl into the other side of the spacious bed, and lay there, listening to him breathe until I fall asleep.

The first night I haven’t slept alone in years.

I wake first the next morning. The second I hear Owen’s slow breath and remember he’s there, I roll out of bed. In the downstairs bathroom, I wash up and brush my teeth, the night slowly returning to me in flashes.

Without putting much thought into it, I turn my attention to making breakfast, and with the help of some bitter, black coffee, my rational brain finally kicks into gear.

I want Owen. We’re good for each other, and we’re clearly compatible.

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