“Okay, I don’t want you thinking otherwise since I didn’t take it any further.”
“Yeah.” My teeth roll over my bottom lip. “You’re a tease.”
“Not on purpose. You’re just a temptress. You know where I stand.”
“Unfortunately.” I sigh, my hope cracking once again. “Can I ask you a question?”
“I don’t know, am I going to need coffee for it?” He rakes his hand through his unruly hair.
“Maybe.”
Standing from the bed, he walks to my “kitchen” and pulls on the back of his neck while he examines it. His bicep bulges, a boulder in the center of it as the little muscles above his ass tighten. I want to know what they feel like under my touch, how they ripple—
“Where are your other mugs?” he calls out, plugging in my tiny Keurig.
“I only have the one.”
He pauses what he’s doing and looks over his shoulder. “You only have one mug?” I nod. “Why?”
“It’s just me. Why would I need more?”
He picks up the plain white mug with a Gaining Goals logo on it. “You could have picked something with a little more personality.” He continues to make coffee as I talk.
“As if you have mugs with personality. I’m sure I would find a bunch of black mugs in your cupboard.”
“Yeah, but I’m not the guy with the personality that screams fun mugs.”
“And what kind of personality do I have?”
The coffee finishes and he looks around the little shelves for sugar, which he spots quickly and drops a little spoonful in the cup before stirring. There’s something about Roark finding his way around my kitchen with ease that’s so comforting and sexy.
Walking toward me, he answers, “Bubbly, cute, sweet.” He looks up. “You need those type of mugs. Pink ones with polka-dots. Something like that.”
“Pink with polka-dots?” I chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He motions for me to scoot over on the bed, so I do, and he doesn’t take long to slip under the sheets with me and put his arm around my shoulder, pulling me in close. He hands me the mug and says, “We can share.”
Share.
This all seems so domestic, like there is something brewing between us rather than simply sexual tension. I could’ve guessed that last night when he showed up at my apartment drunk and wanting to cuddle. Needing to hold me, touch me. There really is something brewing, I just want to know what.
I take the mug and give it a blow before looking up at him, a smile playing at my lips. “I usually add milk too.”
“You couldn’t have said that while I was up?” He takes the mug from me and goes to the kitchen.
“I didn’t know we were sharing.”
He splashes some milk in the coffee and gives it another quick stir. “What kind of dick would I be if I made myself coffee and not you? Now if you had more than one mug, there wouldn’t have been any confusion.”
“Aren’t you clever?” I ask just as he gets back into position, but this time, he keeps the mug for himself.
Arm around my shoulders, he pulls me into his side, his fresh scent warming my toes. “Okay, what was your question? Coffee in hand, I’m ready.”
Second-guessing myself, I say, “Umm, never mind.”
“No way.” He shakes his head. “I made coffee in the tiniest kitchen I’ve ever seen, so you’re asking me that question.”
Chuckling, I rest my head against his shoulder, feeling incredibly nervous, but also curious about his answer. “So, what’s going on between us?”
He’s silent for a second, and my breath hangs on his every word. Finally, “Hell if I know.” He scratches the side of his jaw. “I know I can’t have you, but I can’t seem to stay away either.”
“That makes no sense. You touch me like we’re together. You speak to me like there’s more than friendship, but when it comes to anything physical, you shy away.”
“I don’t shy away. I stop myself and for good reason.”
“Why?” I ask frustrated.
“You know why, Sutton.”
“So you’re allowed to basically turn me on whenever you’re around and then take off, leaving me yearning for your touch?” I push off his chest and turn to look him in the eyes, which are focused on the wall across from us.
Quietly, he says, “It’s not easy for me, Sutton. Don’t think this is something I enjoy. Okay?” He rubs his jaw. “Listen, I’m sorry I came over last night and confused things. I blurred the lines, and I shouldn’t have done that.”
Now he’s pulling away. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut.
“It was having a rough go of it last night, and I just . . . fuck.” He sighs and throws both legs over the side of the bed, ready to retreat, but I grab his shoulders before he can.
“Don’t go, Roark. Talk to me. Why was it a rough night?”
“You won’t understand.”
As if he slapped me, I rear back, insulted. “I might not be tortured like you, Roark, but I pride myself on being empathetic.”
The hurt in my voice must register because he sets the coffee down and turns around, regret on his face. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“Well, you did.”
Sighing, he leans back against the headboard of my bed and tugs on my hand until I’m straddling his lap. His hands go to my thighs, softly rubbing them up and down. It’s moments like this that absolutely confuse me. When did we get to this point? This intimate part of our relationship where I feel like we could tackle anything together, where I want to hear about all his troubles and smooth the crease between his brow with my soft encouragement.
Where was that turning point?
This is why I’m confused, because right now, this is what I want with him, and he gives it to me in small doses but doesn’t fully commit.
Be patient, I remind myself.
“I’m sorry, Sutton. I didn’t mean to insult you. You just have this perfect relationship with your dad, and that’s not the case with my family.”
Leaning forward, I press my hand against his chest. “Is that why you were upset yesterday?”
His hands climb up to my waist and he pulls me closer so our chests are almost touching. He glides his hands to my butt where he holds on tightly and rests his head against the headboard so his Adam’s apple pops. I’m tempted to lean forward and taste his neck, to run my tongue along the column then to his lips where I would desperately devour him.
“Yeah.” His grip on me goes tighter. “My parents are . . . hell, they’re awful.” I really can’t believe he’s opening up to me. I sit back and listen, my hand slowly rubbing against his thick chest. “I grew up in a small town outside of Killarney. The best earning job is farming, and that’s not what I wanted with my life. I did a foreign exchange program at Yale, liked it so much I stayed and studied there. I knew America was where I wanted to be, where I was going to make the most of myself. My parents didn’t take too kindly to that. Still don’t. They didn’t care much for me growing up, always relied on me as a second pair of hands rather than treating me like a child, so when they found out I was earning money, they started calling every month, laying on the guilt trip that I owe it to my family to provide for them.”
My brow pulls together. “They call you for money?”
“Like clockwork. And I give it to them every time.”
“What for?”
One of his hands leaves the grip on my backside so he can pull on his hair in frustration. “Easier that way. I listen to the emotional abuse my mom spins at me, ask her how much, and then wire it.”
“Roark,” I sigh, pressing my hand to his cheek. “Family should never use you like that.”
“I know.” The sad look in his eyes, the frustration in his muscles, it almost breaks me to see him like this. “It’s another reason I can’t have you. The minute they find out I’m dating the daughter of Foster Green, the demands would be endless.”
And it feels like the r
eal reason starts to surface. He’s not only protecting me from the self-destructive habits he seems to have, but from his family as well.
Knowing that makes me more determined to be in his life. A friend. His confidante. Someone who doesn’t take from him but gives back.
Not wanting to offer empty suggestions, I try to soothe his soul by shifting my hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Roark, but I will tell you this. You’ll never see me want you for anything except the man who lives inside of you.”
His eyes flick toward mine, the green so beautifully mossy this morning, even after a heavy night of drinking. His hand slides up my back, dragging the shirt with him as he slowly dances his fingers over my skin. “You’re special, Sutton.”
“And don’t you think it’s time you have something special in your life?”
Head tilted, he studies me. “I want something special, that’s for damn sure.” His jaw works side to side as he thinks, his eyes searching mine. Finally, he says, “I have this event I have to go to next week, would you want to go?”
My pulse skips a beat as a smile pulls on my lips. “Like, as a date?”
“Sort of . . . like a business partner.”
And once again hope falls. Frustrated, I slide off his lap and groan as I flop to the side of the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, I feel the bed shift as he hovers above me, his hair falling forward. Before he can get a word in, I say, “You frustrate me.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”
Sitting back, he stands from the bed and picks up our shared mug. He takes a long gulp and hands it to me as I sit up as well. As Roark retreats to the bathroom, I sit there, contemplating my life and how beyond irritating it is. Of course, I grow feelings for the most stubborn man in New York City.
Shoes on, pants zipped, Roark walks back into the room while pulling his long-sleeved shirt over his head. My eyes trained now, they go straight to his naked torso and reluctantly watch him cover it. I was so close and now feel so far.
Adjusting his shirt, he walks back toward me and stops at the foot of the bed. Last night’s cologne clings to his clothes, wrapping me in warmth. Slowly, he reaches out and cups my cheek, lowering his head to mine, our foreheads connecting. He takes a deep breath and says, “Thank you for last night and for this morning. It meant a lot to me, Sutton.” Lifting his head, he presses a sweet kiss to my forehead, lighting me up inside, then he steps away, sticking his hands in his pockets as if to stop himself from touching me again.
“Think about the event. I’ll talk to you later. Have a good day, lass.”
With a parting wave, he lets himself out. Once the door is shut, I let out a disappointed sigh and lie back on my bed. What in the world happened in the last twenty-four hours? How did I become the person he came to when troubled? I feel like I was given a tiny entry into his world, but then just as swiftly pushed away. It’s so confusing. He is so confusing.
* * *
I have no will to really do anything. Roark confounds me, and there’s really no one I can talk to about this. I’m not heartbroken, but . . . concerned. Do I want to be the friend he turns to when none of the girls at the club do it for him? Gah. It’s a dull, gray day, making it perfect weather for me to have a lazy day, curled up in my bed watching movies. I’ve gone with a romantic comedy binge starting with How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days—that Kate Hudson is such a sassy character—then I moved on to When Harry Met Sally—where Billy Crystal sings Surrey with the Fringe on top, my favorite—and now I’m almost done with Crazy Rich Asians. God, the part where the girl walks down the aisle and it feels like time stands still as the water flows makes me cry every time.
Louise is curled on top of my lap, replacing the need for a weighted blanket. Who needs one when I have a sixteen-pound cat that does the trick?
Her purr vibrates against my hand with every stroke I make across her body, and as the movie plays, I can’t help but allow my mind to drift to last night. The intimacy I shared with Roark, the need I felt vibrating from him, but the iron-clad restraint he had—even when drunk—stopped him from taking that next step.
Unless he really doesn’t want to. I’ve seen the women he’s attracted to, and although he said he can’t stop thinking about me, I certainly don’t fit that mold. My dad is his client. It’s a hurdle, but I wouldn’t think a deal breaker. Dad thinks very highly of Roark, otherwise he never would have teamed us together for the camp. Our age? Such a non-issue. His family? I have no idea how much they ask for, nor why, but if Roark has been giving to them for all these years, why would he think dating me would make any difference? He’s allowed them to exploit him for years.
I guess the real question is, why is this a problem for me at all? Do I want something more with him? His reasons don’t seem insurmountable to me, so maybe I need to accept that there are self-erected barriers only he can remove should he wish to. Yes, I want to be intimate with him, because I’ve never known this sort of physical attraction in my life. He is right. I’ve never had an orgasm during sex with a guy. But something tells me it’s not just the lack of sex that frustrates me.
I want more from Roark McCool than hot sex. I want him, body and soul. Patience has never been my strong suit, and he’s testing my ability to sit back and let things play out. I keep reminding myself, every time I get frustrated, to take deep breaths and think about what patience could bring me. If I move too fast I might scare him away, and that’s the last thing I want. I also want his friendship . . . strangely.
Knock. Knock.
Louise stills on my lap and I carefully move her to the side, toss my blanket off my legs, and pad to the door to look through the peephole. My heart stutters in my chest when I see Roark standing on the other side of the door.
Excited, I unlock everything and open up. A smirk crosses his face as he gives me a quick once-over. I’m wearing purple thermal leggings and a matching top with my hair piled in a bun on the top of my head, and I’m not wearing an ounce of makeup. And from the way he’s looking at me, I’m guessing he likes it . . . a lot.
Leaning against the doorframe, hand on the door, I ask, “What are you doing here?”
He takes a step forward, hands behind his back. His cologne is the first thing to grab hold of my heart, next is the devastating smile that crosses his face as he brings a bag from around his back between us. “I got you something.”
“You got me something?” God, he makes me smile so hard.
“Yeah.” He nods at my apartment. “Can I come in?”
I step to the side, allowing him to breeze on in. Dressed in dark jeans, tan boots, and a black jacket, he spins around and hands me the gift as I shut the door.
I take it—it’s kind of heavy—and say, “Want to take your coat off?”
He sticks his hands in his pockets and shakes his head. “I’m not staying, just dropping that off.”
I hide my disappointment as I walk over to my bed and cross my legs, letting the present rest in my lap. Still in the middle of the room, Roark keeps his distance but watches intently as I start to pull the tissue paper from the bag. “Did you wrap this yourself?”
“Would it impress you if I said I did?”
“Maybe.”
He smiles wickedly. “I paid someone to do it.”
That makes me laugh out loud. Of course he did. Shaking my head, I pull out a round object and start unwrapping it, unveiling a pink mug . . . with white polka-dots. I can’t seem to shake the smile that is permanently on my lips.
“You got me a cute mug.”
“Two.” He holds up his fingers.
I reach into the bag and pull out another. This one is not pink with polka-dots, instead, it is a cat head with little ears and whiskers.
“Oh my God, this is so cute.”
Looking shy, he shrugs and says, “When I saw it, I thought you needed it since you have a cat and all.”
“I love it.” I hold on to it tightly. “Thank you, Roark.”
“
No problem.” He heads to the door. “Just promise you’ll get rid of that boring mug and use these from now on.”
“Promise.”
He reaches for the door knob, and I quickly pop out of bed, setting the mugs down and going to him. “Hold on, wait a second.” I step between him and the door, blocking his exit. “Are you going to let me thank you properly?”
“What does properly entail?”
“A hug.”
“Just a hug?”
“Do you want more?” I ask, pressing him.
“You know I want more.” The veins in his neck tense. “But a hug will do.” Before I can respond, he pulls me in by the hand and wraps his arms around me, his chin resting on my head.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “That was really thoughtful. I don’t think I’ve ever received something so thoughtful from a guy.”
“Then you’re not hanging out with the right people.” He gently presses a kiss to the top of my head and pulls away. He must expect me to move to the side. But when I don’t, he playfully tugs on the hem of my shirt. “Are you going to let me out?”
“What are you doing for the rest of the day?”
“I have some things I have to take care of.”
His hand remains on my shirt, his fingers playing with the fabric. “You have things to take care of here too.” Good Lord, did that just come out of my mouth? My cheeks blush from my boldness, but it must do the trick because Roark groans and closes the space between us, pushing me against the door.
The hand playing with my shirt now slides to my bare skin, his thumb rubbing over my exposed hip bone. His other hand falls to the door, next to my head, bracing him. His forehead connects with mine and his nose rubs against mine for a few heartbeats.
My breath stills in my lungs as white-hot temptation courses through me. Be patient, let him make the move.
“Why are you so goddamn perfect?”
“I’m far from perfect, Roark.”
His gaze connects with mine. “You’re perfect in my eyes.”
His searing yet beautiful eyes bore a hole straight to my heart, seizing the breath from my lungs and halting the blood pumping in my veins.
Diary of a Bad Boy Page 15