I was a bad man. Maybe one of the worst.
But I couldn’t do that.
Unfortunately, I really, really fucking wanted to. Wanted to bury my face between her legs and sink into her so deep she screamed. I wanted to do all sorts of shockingly dirty things to her until we both forgot our names until morning.
That was, as they say, the rub.
“You’ll be all right?” Mac walked me to the front door, checking, as he always did, for interlopers.
I was too tired to argue with him. “No. But I’ll manage.”
“Will she?”
There was that fucking honesty again.
I pressed my forehead against the door, like somehow I could channel whatever state Laney was in without actually seeing her. Was she angry that I was home so late? Was she ambivalent about whether I showed up at all? Was she already regretting this marriage within the first forty-eight hours of arrival?
“I don’t want to hurt her, Mac,” I mumbled into the lacquered wood.
The big man didn’t say anything. It was like he knew I needed the time to process such a foreign emotion.
I pressed my thumb to the lock and listened as the mechanism went to work. A few seconds later, the door opened.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” God. I had to do this whole day over again, didn’t I?
“Take your time, Ronan. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
I shut the door behind me. The house was dark and quiet. Maybe even too quiet.
“Laney?” I called out.
When there was no answer, I checked my watch. It wasn’t that late—not quite eleven-thirty. Maybe she was asleep, probably back in the guestroom where she belonged.
Or maybe she’s out, another voice told me, one that sounded absurdly like me when I was giving my brothers as much shit as possible. Maybe she realized you’re a piece of shit and she can do better. Maybe she left completely, and when you go upstairs, you’re going to realize that your house is as empty as your conscience.
“Fuck you,” I said to no one in particular. Or, really, to myself.
I was losing the goddamn plot. I needed a drink, a shower, and a reasonable night of sleep, in that order. But since I still somehow couldn’t make myself go for the bottle that wasbeckoning from the drink cart, I headed up the stairs for the second item on the agenda.
Everything would be better after a shower. Definitely a cold one. My balls needed it bad.
Like a bull headed single-mindedly for the flag, I shed my clothing without thinking about what I was doing. Kicked my shoes off at the door. Abandoned my gym bag, with the crumpled suit, near the kitchen. Lost my jacket on the landing, and by the time I got to the bedroom, which was as dark as the rest of the house and just as empty, I was in nothing but my underwear.
So, I was right. She was gone, or in the guestroom, likely having realized that this marriage—and I—were bullshit.
Well, good for her.
Didn’t stop me from thinking about her naked, though. In fact, it possibly made it worse.
After kicking off my boxers, I headed for the bathroom, eager to rub one (or five) out, then jump into the shower to dampen the fire the thought of Delaney Fisher seemed to ignite.
Christ, if this was what love did to a man?—
Wait, what?
I froze at the door.
Love?