I drop his phone and glare at him.
“I didn’t touch her. I swear it.” He holds his hands up again and presses his body against the door.
I love how afraid he is. It’s almost erotic. I want to do it again.
“She’s okay?” I can barely get the words out of my mouth.
“Sleeping. See, it’s a live feed.”
“Of her bedroom,” I point out. I’ll destroy it tomorrow.
“Okay. Here’s the thing.” He’s trying to find the voice again, the even one, and it keeps sliding off him. “I need you to take a step back.” He pauses before muttering, “Please.” Exhaling he breathes, “I’m asking nice. I don’t ask nice. Ask anyone.”
“No.” I step closer, pressing my body against his. And that’s all it takes for everything inside of me to light up. This man. This devious little shit smells like lemon meringue on a sunny Sunday. Even though I think it’s his sweat. He makes my head all swimmy.
“Hadley.” He tries for a deeper voice, and promptly fails.
My body aches for this man. And I can’t figure out why.
“I want you.” I hear myself say the words. Breathe them really. “Why the fuck do I want you?”
I have never said that first. Not once. Not to the ex I stayed with for stability, not to anyone. Men arrive and I deal with the arrival. I don’t walk across rooms. I just walked across the room.
“We should call Enzo.” He presses back against the door, reaches for the knob. I swat his hand away. “Leif,” he says, and the name comes out wrong. He says his name softly with care as though he loves him.
I pocket that nugget for later.
“Who are you?” I question. Because that’s the question, isn’t it. Who is this man.
“No one,” he says, but his pupils are gone and he’s aroused. I don’t know how I know it. But I know. He’s aroused and if I press my torso against him just so… oh yes. He is very much aroused. He groans, his head hitting the door. His hands ball into fists and he doesn’t know what to do with them. They go above his head, down. Up.
It’s amusing. And I let out a teeny tiny little snort.
“It’s not funny.” He groans. “Gods, you are, I want you.”
“Is that consent?” I ask. Because. Fuck it. I’ve had a shit day and who am I to let a good hard erection go to waste?
“What?” He frowns. His eyes opening back up to look at me.
“You heard me,” I say, watching his face for any tell. Any microexpression.
His mouth parts. “Consent? That’s what you want right now?”
“You want me. I want you.”
“After all that? You kicked me out.”
“And?”
“And?” He laughs, and it’s got no humor to it. “I had a handle on tonight. I had a plan. I had—” He stops. “I don’t know what you are.”
“Is that consent?”
The old me would be apologizing by now. The old me apologized to him in a hallway hours ago. I notice she’s not here and I don’t go looking for her. New me wants to put good use to the erection straining against his zipper.
“You want consent,” he says it back to me like the word is in a language he half-remembers. He looks over his shoulder and finds only door, no Enzo, no Leif, no one to hand this to. “They’re going to kill me,” he says, quieter. “Or they’re going to understand exactly. I don’t know which is worse.”
I reach for the why. There should be a why.