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His body goes rigid, his breathing stops, then he releases me and rolls onto his back.
“Because you’re already broken,” he says. His voice is conflicted. Strangled.
The bed dips and he turns his back on me, taking his blistering heat with him.
“Now go to sleep.”
His words ring in my ears.
Sleep wouldn’t come now even if I begged for it.
Dahlia
I must have got a few stolen hours of sleep because I awake with a jolt to an empty bed.
My heart plummets to the pit of my stomach.
He’s gone.
I knew there was a good chance he would be, but it’s still a gut-wrenching feeling. Everything that surrounds this brooding, dark god is unknown. Even his goddamn name.
It’s pathetic, but I roll over and breathe in the scent of his pillow. It’s drenched in a cocktail of pheromones and oaky aftershave and it makes my pussy clench. Groaning, I prop myself up on my elbows—and spot a puddle of dark, expensive fabric pooling on the floor.
My breathing stops.His clothes from last night?
Jumping up, I dart across the room and indulge in my new favorite hobby, curtain-twitching.
His car is still here!
On shaky knees, I stumble out of the bedroom, and that’s when a gruff voice floats to my ears. I follow it into the living room and come to a crashing stop in the doorway.
Jesus Christ and all of his disciples.
There he is, wearing nothing but a pair of black Calvin Klein’s that look painted onto the curve of his ass. He has his back to me, slightly bent over, every sculpted muscle between his shoulder blades working like an intricate mechanism. I steady myself against the doorframe, drinking in the view. It feels like my living room is a museum exhibition, and I’m the only one with a ticket. He belongs on a plinth, behind glass and a ‘no touching’ sign. God, maybe even one of those red ropes…
When I manage to pick my jaw up off the floor, I take a step to the left, trying to figure out what he’s doing. His cell phone is tucked between his cheek and shoulder, kitchen scissors in one hand, the leaves of my houseplant in the other. I watch, stunned, as he towers over the plant, brow creased in concentration, snipping away at the leaves.
A train screeches past. He pulls the cell away from his ear, patiently waiting for the apartment to stop quaking.
Then he talks again.
“I’m not going back to the estate,” he growls into his cell, punctuating his words with a quick snip-snip. “I won’t put Poppy and little Valentina in danger.” There’s a sudden sour taste in my mouth.
Of course he’s married with a kid. Men who look likethataren’t single. My cheeks fluster and I turn on my heels, trying to creep out unnoticed—
“Hey.”
When I turn round, I’m pinned with a blistering stare. He drops the leaves, holds onto his cell, and says, “I’ll call you back.” Giving me his full attention now, he points the sharp end of the scissors at me. “Areca Palms need repotting every two-to-three years. This one is sitting in a pile of dust.”
My eyes trail to the plant creeping up the corner of the living room. I bought it at Walmart when I moved in a year ago, and haven’t touched it since. “Uh, sorry?”
His scowl deepens. “How often are you watering it?”
I pause. “Never?”
He grumbles something under his breath. “Fronds need to be sprayed with micronutrients—”
“Can you stop brandishing those scissors at me? I’m getting more and more scared that you’re going to stab me with them.”
