And I was right too. I have to consider myself.
I know what I want—I want him. Not just physically, although if he touches me in the right way, I might combust. But I want the Wade Mason I’m slowly getting to know. The man who makes me laugh. The one who eats donuts on a random weekday afternoon even though I know he doesn’t want to. The guy who let me snap his picture on a sidewalk … and then snapped mine.
No one ever wants to snap mine.
I’m cognizant of the fact that he might have intimacy issues, and I respect the hell out of him for admitting that to me now—before we sleep together.
This situation works for me right now. If the day comes when it doesn’t suit me, I’ll make a different choice.
“You know,” I say, narrowing my eyes, “I like you better when you don’t talk a lot anyway.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You know what’s not bullshit?”
He hums.
“You just asked me to spend time with you,” I say.
“Did I?” He twists his lips. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me tonight.”
“Well, I know what’s not gotten into me.”
His eyes darken. All levity from the past few minutes washes away from his features. His shoulders shove back, and his chin lifts.
“Patience, Dara, is a virtue.”
I shiver against the timbre of his voice.
He can’t be serious. He can’t wind me up like this—make weighty insinuations, promises, even—and then pull out a patience card? To hell with patience.
But as I look at him and see the shadows shift over his face, I realize what’s happening. He’s backtracking.
This is his way of trying to stay in control.
My lips twitch.
Nice try, Mr. Mason.
TWENTY-FIVE
WADE
Dara smirks. “Excuse me?”
“Patience, Dara, is a virtue.”
Even if my own patience is wearing thin.
I almost growl the words out as I’m about to snap. This beautiful, sexy woman in my home, in my space, is more intoxicating than I even imagined.
“You’ll be fine.” That’s what I told myself. Apparently, I’m a liar now too because I am not fine. I’m two seconds from losing control, and as crazy as it is, I really don’t give a shit.
Dara is here. With me. After everything I’ve said, the vibes I’ve delivered—making her think that I don’t want to touch her, for the love of fuck, she’s still here. Trusting me. Wanting me.
I close my eyes to recenter myself.
I want her. Pretending that I don’t is a lost cause, and I have no idea how I’ll smooth this situation over.
My eyes open, and I see the little smirk on her lips.
“Well, I know what’s not gotten into me.”
I know what’s about to be, you frustratingly beautiful woman.
TWENTY-SIX
DARA
I reach across the sofa and lift the edge of his tie. My knuckles drag against the wall of his chest.
“Patience is not a virtue,” I say, running my fingers up the silk to the loose knot at his throat. “That’s just an old proverb.”
“Actually, it is.” His throat moves as my hands brush lightly against it. “It’s a complexity consisting of many fundamental virtues like humility, generosity, and self-control.”
Leave it to Wade to give me a philosophy lesson while I’m trying to seduce him.
I keep my outward attention focused on his tie. “I think it’s safe to say that you get an A in self-control.”
My chest shakes. Each breath is a struggle to stay even-keeled and not a full-on pant like my adrenaline level demands.
The knot frees with little effort. I pull one end. The fabric slides across the back of his neck and then down the other side of his torso.
“You don’t do too bad when it comes to self-control either,” he says, the words strained.
The playing field has been leveled—at least a little. I’m getting to him as much as he’s getting to me. I’m certain, without a reasonable doubt, that if I made an effort to kiss him that he would kiss me back.
But that would be too easy.
I look at him, winding his tie around my hand. His eyes darken as one of my sleeves falls off my shoulder and lands midway down my arm. I’m aware of it; cool air kisses the once-covered piece of skin, but I give it no attention. I just wrap the silk around my knuckle and otherwise sit still.
There is a cushion between us—just enough space for me to get a full view of him. In the low, amber-colored light, all of the traits I love about Wade are amplified. He’s sharper, taller, darker. Sexier. And with the heat dissipating off the fireplace in front of us, my need to find relief from my overstimulation is nearly too much.
He reaches across the cushion with a deliberation that makes my insides quiver. He takes the tail end of his tie and gives it a tug. The other end is nestled in my palm with the rest of the fabric wrapped around my hand. I don’t let go. I can’t—not without letting the silk unwind first.
His lips form a sinful smirk as he guides me toward him. Once I’m closer, he drops the material and grips my hips instead.
His eyes lock with mine.
I bunch my dress at my hips, and then, as he lifts me, I move across his lap and straddle him.
I sink against him slowly.
His lips part. I raise a suspecting brow. Together, we grin.
Every cell in my body buzzes as I try to process the beauty of his unguarded smile, the feel of his hands cupping my ass—how hard his cock is, and how close it is to my opening.
I shift my hips, earning a slight hiss from Wade, and begin to work on his shirt buttons.
“Keep that up, and my self-control will be out the door,” he warns.
“Isn’t that the point?”
He chuckles, the sound scuffing against my already raw libido.
I can’t resist. “You know,” I say, smirking, “this is adding a level of intimacy in our relationship.”
He doesn’t answer me. He just hums in an acknowledgment that I spoke … and as a deflection.
I scoot back, ensuring that I rock against him as roughly as possible, and finish unbuttoning his shirt. He works his shoulders around, helping me rid him of it. Then he leans back against the sofa as if he’s not sitting there looking like a Greek god.
Damn.
I stare at his chest. I know I do. But the lines on this man’s body are insane.
Who knew the architect looked this … hot? Because it is hot. It exceeds handsome and good-looking and even gorgeous.
He. Is. Divine.
A heavy line runs from his neck out to the balls of his shoulders. A hollow spot just above his clavicle is a perfect spot for a kiss. His pecs are defined, his stomach is rock hard, and his sides go from wide to narrow at his hips in a way that makes me crazy.
“I don’t know how I like you better,” I say. “In a suit with glasses or like this.”
“I would imagine most women would prefer this, yes?”
“Some, maybe.”
I place my hands tentatively on his stomach and lean forward. His breath is hot against my lips. His eyes burn into mine. I hold them and smile.