Because even the idea of her alone in that room withhim? Unacceptable.
I step out of the room. The elevator ride feels like a slow descent into hell. My pulse hammers against my throat, hands fisting and flexing at my sides like I’m heading into a fight. Maybe I am—Ethan might already be in her room, and I can’t promise that I won’t punch the kid at first sight.
I stalk down the hallway, counting the numbers until I reach Mya’s room. I pound on the door.
When it opens, every rational thought I had is obliterated.
Mya stands there barefoot, drowning in the soft light from the lamp behind her. Her pajamas—if you can call them that—are nothing but a thin, silky camisole that hugs the curve of her breasts, and shorts that barely cover the swell of her ass.
My throat dries.
Fuck.
Her hair is loose, curls tumbling over her shoulders like something out of a fantasy I shouldn’t be having.
I drag my gaze back up to her face. Her lips are parted, her cheeks flushed.
“Worth,” she breathes, clutching the doorframe for support.
I should say something reasonable, but reason is hanging by a thread, and professionalism went out the window the moment she joked about Ethan.
All I can manage is a low growl. “You were going to call Ethan?”
Mya blinks, and that tiny pause is all it takes to tip me over the edge. I step forward, forcing her back until I’m inside her room and the door clicks shut behind me.
I can feel the heat coming off her body, her chest rising and falling under that sinful scrap of silk.
Her throat works as she swallows. “I was joking.”
My lips twitch into a wicked smile. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You dangle his name just to get a rise out of me.”
Her chin tips up, defiant. “Maybe because it works.”
For a second, I simply stare at her. She’s right. It does work. Too damn well.
I close the distance, stopping just shy of pressing against her. My fingers battle the urge to reach for her. “Do you know what you’re doing to me, Mya? You walk around in little scraps of silk, talk back like you own the place, mention other guys’ names in your room, and then you act surprised when I can’t fucking think straight around you.”
Her lips part, a shaky breath slipping out. “Ethan isn’t?—”
“Say Ethan’s name again, and I’ll lose it.”
The silence between us burns. Her gaze darts to my mouth, then back up. I see the crack in her wall, the tremor in her body.
My hand shoots up, tangling in her curls, angling her head back just enough. I capture her mouth with mine, devouring, taking—because I can’t fucking help myself.
Mya gasps into me, and I swallow it whole, my other hand gripping her hip, pulling her flush against the hardness straining at my sweatpants.
Too soon, she pushes at my chest. “Worth. Enough.”
The sound that rumbles out of me is a growl of frustration. I step back and swipe a hand down my face, trying to rein myself back in. My body wants more—somuch more—but I know the wall is back up.
“You can stay,” Mya says, voice softer now, though resolute. “Help me eat the food. But no more kissing. Or touching. Promise me, Worth.”
Every muscle in me resists. The thought of keeping my hands off her when she’s sitting there in barely-there silk borders on torture. But I’d rather have her like this, than not at all. If this is the only way she’ll let me near, then I’ll take it.
“Fine,” I grit out, forcing myself to relent.
I drop onto the edge of her bed, while she spins her desk chair to face me.