And because veritable giants live in this house, the seats are large and sturdy. Even so, Dex’s frame swallows up the chair as he sits in it.
I bring him a cup, and then I notice: he’s wearing his hair down. Holy hell. It falls in thick, brown waves to the top of his collar. The sun has left streaks of gold running through it. And while the combination of full beard and flowing hair should be too much—call to mind an iconic Jesus or something—it isn’t. It just looks hot. Wild. Touchable.
I sit and curl my fingers around my mug.
He does the same, and the late-morning sun shines through the window, illuminating his tattoos. Black and red roses, a clock, a sugar skull, an indigo dragon, a 1940s battleship—there’s a lot to look at. They run up his arms and under his sleeves, making me wonder if his chest and torso are covered too.
“Do they have meaning?” I ask, because I’m clearly looking.
“Some do.” His rich voice is almost a shock to my system, as if by speaking, he’s flicked my senses into overload. But he doesn’t notice. “Some of them just came to me while I was drawing.”
“You drew these?”
He nods, takes a sip of his coffee. “It relaxes me.”
“I like to draw too. Mostly room designs nowadays.”
“You did a great job with the house,” he says, not bothering to look around. I have no doubt he’s already made a study of the entire place.
“Thanks.”
I’d like to think we’re just making chit-chat. That we’re just like any other casual acquaintances who happen to be houseguests at the same time and place. But that’s not what’s happening. Because Dex’s gaze never leaves mine.
It’s unnerving. Hot. As if behind his light conversation, what he’s really saying is, You loved it, didn’t you? Sucking on my tongue, grinding on my cock. You want it again, don’t you?
Heat washes over me, and I struggle not to shift in my seat.
I realize we’ve stopped talking and are simply staring at each other. Every place he didn’t touch last night—every place I want him to touch—is hot and achy.
I take a deep breath. Watch him do the same.
I’m about to bolt when he leans forward, his muscled forearms sliding a bit closer. “Go out with me. On a date.”
“What?” I push back from the table. But I can’t make my legs lift me. “I thought last night was…”
“A mistake?” He slowly shakes his head. “Not for me.”
I know I’m gaping. I can’t seem to stop. “But, but…”
His eyes crinkle. In the full sun, I see that they’re a striking blend of colors—blue, green, gold, and brown—like polished agate. “Speechless?” he says. “I like it.”
My mouth snaps shut. Then promptly opens. “You like me speechless. Well, there’s a great motivator for going out with you.”
“Like that I made you speechless. That I flustered you.” He tilts his head as he looks me over. “You do the same to me. Get me all worked up. Only it seems to make me talk more than usual, not less.”
A fresh wave of heat washes through me.
“Dex—”
“Ethan,” he interjects softly. “Will you call me Ethan? At least some of the time?”
“Ethan,” I say quietly, and it feels intimate. Especially when his lids lower as though I’ve stroked his skin just by saying his name. I swallow hard. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem like the hookup type.”
“I’m not.” He clenches his mug again. “I don’t think you really are either.”
“No,” I admit with a small smile. “Not really. I’m looking for more now.”
Dex—Ethan—nods. “Thing is, we’re both here for the week. Ivy and Gray are in no condition to entertain. I like you. A lot. Why don’t we go out together?”
“Erm…that’s not what your proposition sounded like to me. You said on a date.”
His lush lips curl. No, do not look at his mouth. I watch his lips move.
“I did. I want to kiss you again, Fiona. I couldn’t sleep last night because I wanted that so badly.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.