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Eventually, he reaches behind him and then holds a coffee cup out to me, still not saying anything.
"Thanks." I bring the mug to my lips, close my eyes, and breathe in the rich scent. I love coffee. I love the way it smells, I love the way it tastes, I love the way it burns its way down my throat, and I especially love the jolt of caffeine it delivers into my system. I'm addicted.
"Jesus," he mutters.
My eyes spring open to find him staring at me, watching me with those piercing, bright hazel eyes of his. Once again, he looks like he wants to devour me.
I blush at the thought and then stand a little straighter, ready to get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible. I've never been a big fan of dragging things out. I prefer to deal with issues head-on.
"So I'm sorry about last night," I say, holding his gaze, refusing to fidget under its weight. My hand trembles, so I quickly set my coffee cup on the counter and cross my arms. "I never drink that much. I, um, I'm sorry I passed out, and you had to take care of me."
He frowns at me, something shifting through his gaze so quickly that I can't make it out. He looks…I'm not sure. It's like I've thrown him off balance again, and he suddenly isn't sure what to expect from me. That little flash of uncertainty gives me the courage I need to finish what I have to say.
"I should probably also apologize for going into your room yesterday. It wasn't fair of me to invade your privacy like that. You had your door closed for a reason, and I should have respected that."
He stares at me but doesn't say anything. He does that a lot. Just watches me. Ever since I first met him, he's watched me like he can't look away. He looks at me like he knows me inside and out and still hasn't decided what to do about me. It's unnerving and hot at the same damn time, and I have no clue what it means.
"You said you should apologize," he finally says.
"Hmm?"
"You said you should apologize." He tips his coffee cup up to his lips and takes a sip, watching me over the rim. Those hazel eyes rove across my face, not missing anything. "You didn't say you are sorry."
"Oh." I wander toward the fridge, grimacing when my foot throbs.
"Is your foot still bothering you?"
"It's okay," I say, giving him a partial truth. It's not too bad, but it feels worse this morning than yesterday. I think it may be getting infected. That's probably my fault for walking around barefoot all the time, but I like the feel of the floor beneath my feet. I love buying shoes, but I'm not big on actually wearing them.
I squeak when I'm suddenly lifted off my feet. My hands go to Roman's shoulders, clutching as he swings me up into his arms like I don't weigh anything. He doesn't seem to notice my weight at all, actually. It's honestly kind of hot. Damien was tall and lanky, and he never picked me up. I always felt a little out of place next to him. Or maybe he made me feel out of place beside him. I'm not sure, but Roman doesn't make me feel that way.
He turns and plops me down on the island. The marble is cold beneath me, and my thin shorts don't offer much protection. The chill fades quickly when he runs his hand down my bare leg, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. A different kind of shiver rolls through me, and then he's propping my foot up to examine it, a furrow between his brows. I fight the urge to reach out and smooth that little wrinkle with my fingers.
"You need to keep this bandaged. It's infected." His fingertip runs across my instep, and then he turns away.
He's back in seconds, the first aid kit in his hands. He pops it open and rummages through, setting aside various items before he finds what he's after. I open my mouth to tell him that I'm fine, but he glares at me before I can form the first syllable, so I shut up and sit patiently.
He cleans the cut with gentle hands, swabs ointment onto it, and then wraps a bandage around my foot.
"Thanks," I whisper when he's finished.
I expect him to let me go, but he doesn't. He looks up at me, his big hand still wrapped around my ankle. He's so close I can see little flecks of gold in his eyes and smell the coffee and minty toothpaste on his breath. I swallow hard at the heat in his gaze.
"You said you should apologize," he repeats his earlier comment now that he's done doctoring me up. "Are you sorry?"
"No," I whisper, unable to lie to him. Maybe I should be sorry for invading his privacy or throwing myself at him, but honestly, I think I'd do the same thing all over again. I want him, and I know he wants me, too. Taking big risks and putting myself out there has never really been my thing, but I want to take one this time.
He slides his hand up my calf.
"Are you sorry?" I ask, my gaze locked on the play of emotions across his face. They swirl through his eyes so quickly that I'm not sure where his head is at…what he's thinking…, or what he wants.
"No." His hand lands against my inner thigh, making me jump. "Easy, baby," he murmurs, placing himself between my spread legs.
"You apologized yesterday," I remind him, trying to ignore the way my stomach flips at the word baby. I love it when he calls me that.
"I lied." His mouth lands against my ear, his breath hot and heavy. "I'm not sorry for a fucking thing, Mila." His teeth clamp down around my earlobe. The sting sends a bolt straight to my clit. "You offered me two weeks," he says against my skin. "Did you mean it?"
"Y-yes."
