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My crush…it’s huge. Full blown.
And yeah. He’s really dangerous.
Inside my apartment, he makes himself at home, getting drinks for us, putting music on by hooking up his phone to the Bluetooth sound system I have.
I kick off my heels and take the whiskey on the rocks he holds out, and sip it, to give myself something to do that doesn’t involve me either running and hiding or ripping his clothes off.
Clearly, I have problems.
So does Ryder Sinclair.
Because he’s looking at me with smolder in those melting chocolate eyes and I’m buzzing. The music doesn’t help, either. It’s sultry and low, easy and seductive.
“You like this kind of music?” I ask.
It’s old school, like really old school, bluesy, jazzy, from when life was dressing to the nines and films came in black and white and bigger than life with the impossible glamor.
“Since I have it, I’m going to hazard the answer to that is yes, Perry.”
“Interesting.”
“What?” He gives his head a small shake before sprawling on the sofa. “I can’t have taste?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
“I like you. Does that count as taste, Perry?” He grins as he picks up his drink. “Don’t sell yourself short or I’ll put on some autotuned pop.”
“That,” I say, “sounds more like you.”
“That sounds suspiciously like an insult.”
“Take it how you want.” I set my drink on the coffee table. “I’m getting changed.”
His gaze slides over me. “I didn’t bring anything for myself.”
“I have some Hello Kitty pajamas you can wear.”
“Or I can wear nothing at all…”
Heat pools inside me and that familiar tingling down in my sex starts. I open my mouth but I can’t think of a damned word to say that isn’t along the line of take me now, so I turn and scurry off to my room.
Inside, I lean against the closed door, shutting my eyes and my legs start to shake.
Oh, man. He’s beyond dangerous. He’s a secret weapon. And I don’t know what to do.
It isn’t even that he wants me. I’m aware enough that he’s the kind of low-down man whore who’d do any woman he found mildly attractive. But he turned my act of dressing down into some sort of flirt fest and—
I need to get my shit together. That’s what I need to do.
Taking in a breath, I straighten up and open my eyes. Then I strip down and find pajamas, this time the old man style of thick stripes and a long sleeved button down top, all in that unsexiest of materials, flannel. Then I head to my bathroom, scrape my hair back and remove the bare minimum make up.
And okay, I feel a little silly for doing this like I’m some femme fatale or pin up girl, but it’s more for me than for him.
When I finally emerge and head back, the lamps are on, the overhead off, and Ryder looks for all the world like he’s settled in and made himself at home. His shoes and socks are off, his jacket and waistcoat and tie abandoned; and that dark head with the soft loose curls is bent over a book.
The image slams me hard against the floor, smacking me in the solar plexus. Because like that, he’s the picture of my dream man.
I’ve got it bad and I need to stop.
