“Don’t give me shit,” I warn angrily.
He scowls. “I’m not.”
I scoff.
He shifts gears and pulls into traffic and laughs darkly.
He’s pissed off as he drives, I can tell.
“I’m upset on your behalf. What kind of moth—”
“It was an accident, okay?”
He growls under his breath, “Bullshit,” then eyes me, his voice painfully tender as he reaches out to take my chin and draw my gaze to his. “Hey. Gina. You okay?”
His touch could break me right now. My eyes water and I glance out the window. He drops his hand and puts it back on the gearshift.
“So he’s not perfect,” I blurt, throwing my arms in the air. “Sometimes the guys you’re dating never are. You start to wonder why you even bother…” I glare out the window. “But then you think of the cuddling, and just having someone’s warmth in bed, and who cares about perfection?”
Silence.
I glare defensively and cross my arms tightly over my chest. “Why am I telling you this? You wouldn’t even know. I doubt you’ve slept with a woman after…you know.”
“That’s right, Gina. I just use them then kick them out the door,” he says sarcastically, almost with self-loathing.
We end up at the pharmacy, buying me a morning-after pill. Just in case.
He adds a pack of Trident bubblegum, then fishes out his card and pays for everything.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I pull out his gum, hand it over, and carry the bag to his car. “I’ve never taken one of these but Wynn has and she says she felt absolutely awful, crampy and like shit,” I complain as he opens the car door for me.
He climbs behind the wheel, and he’s dead silent and unnervingly thoughtful as he drives me to my place. He parks the car, and as I say thank you and get out, he turns off the ignition and follows me into my apartment.
Silence up the elevator.
He takes the key when I fish it out and opens the door, then he waits for me to pass. I’ve never had Tahoe in my apartment. It’s a little jarring to see him step inside. He throws his jacket aside, rolls up the sleeves of his navy-blue sweater, and settles on the couch.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
I don’t know why, but the sight of Tahoe invading my apartment and taking up my couch makes me feel vulnerable. The situation strangely intimate.
He kicks off his shoes.
“You’re not planning to stay here, are you?”
He raises a brow and grabs the remote from the coffee table. “In case you don’t feel well. Get crampy and shit.” He quotes me, smirking.
I frown.
He turns on the TV. And the last show I had been watching, Vikings, flares on the screen.
Reluctantly I admire the man on the screen, and then the man on the couch in my apartment. Both so raw, so blond, so virile. One of them—the one in my apartment—wreaking havoc with my lungs.
“You look like him, you know,” I say in a bit of an accusatory tone. “Ragnar. That hunting look in your eyes. You don’t look polished even in your business suits. You look like you belong somewhere outside.” Wild and untamed. “Like a Neanderthal.”
He frowns back, then pats the couch. “Come here.”
“I’m not a dog, don’t tell me ‘come here.’”
But I go anyway, kicking my shoes off and dropping at his side. He wraps his arm around me and I feel myself stiffen. His chest is like a wall. He smooths his hand down my arm and chuckles softly. “Come on, relax,” he whispers, his smile accidentally grazing my ear.
It feels insanely good just to be held—no expectations, no sexy times ahead, just being held. My eyes flutter closed, relaxation seeping into my bones.
“I can’t afford this apartment anymore,” I tell him. “I’m not renewing my lease. Wynn is moving in with Emmett, and I really don’t feel like acquiring a roommate. I’m going to look for a new place, a small one, just for me.”
I hadn’t realized I was stroking his chest. He’s watching me with a heavy-lidded gaze. The air thickens with awareness.
Our eyes hold.
His expression is so hungry, and inside that gaze is that primitive look, so intense it borders on pain.
“I should go,” he says softly.
“You should,” I say just as softly.
He releases me reluctantly, then grabs his jacket and leaves without another word.
*
Minutes later, Tahoe stands in my doorway with his jacket still in hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his dark-wash jeans, that navy-blue sweater draped sexily over his chest.
“Your doorman let me back in.”
I feel myself stand like a sleepwalker, getting sucked into his gaze. “I can see that.”
He shuts the door behind him. “I’m spending the night.”
“You are? I mean…no, really, you’re not.”
He walks back in and throws his jacket on the couch we’d been sitting on and starts to prowl my place like some beast on the loose. “Where’s your bedroom?”
“There—” I point down the hall, stunned when he immediately heads in that direction. “But what are you doing?”