Offensive Behavior

“You’re not taking me to Paris.”

“Why not?”

A thousand million reasons. She had college. She had work. She had responsibilities. She didn’t have the money to spare for an airfare and what about accommodation? Paris would be an expensive city. And, no. Simply, no. She had a good solid floor to pace around so she did that. Paris. Madame Amour. What was he thinking? He couldn’t know about these things because he saw a random flyer on someone’s coffee table.

“No.” Chicks who slept on airbeds because they were homeless didn’t pack up and go to Paris on the vague chance to win a scholarship that’s probably already been given.

“No isn’t the answer.”

Yeah, it so was. “I don’t work for you. You don’t get to tell me what you think of my answers. You don’t get to make decisions for me. No.”

He blanched.

Slapping him would’ve been kinder.

Reid made a stifled sound and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.” A muscle in his jaw jumped and the furrow between his brows was back. “Fuck.”

He got off the sofa to leave the room and she stepped in front of him. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did.” He moved around her.

He’d had a totally crappy day, but yes, she did mean it. She backed up, but put a hand to his chest and when he didn’t try to avoid that touch, she stepped onto his bare feet. She wasn’t heavy enough to stop him moving physically but there’s no doubt he took note of her words. He’d added an I believe in you to his note to Plus.

“Yes, I meant it. I thought you were talking about getting away for a couple of days. Take the bike and ride off into the sunset, and I can afford that. I’d love that. I’d love it if you hired a car and we drove to Waco. But I don’t have the money to go to Europe, or the talent for that stage and anyway the deadline to audition must’ve passed.”

He put his hands to her waist and picked her up so they were nose to nose. “I wasn’t asking you to pay. I need to get out of here and Paris is a far enough away, the competition is still open and if we went you could try out. How can that be a bad thing?”

“You can’t pay for me to go to Paris.”

He lowered her to the floor. “That plain pisses me off. You’re my girlfriend and I’m loaded and if I want to take you to the moon I should be allowed to.”

Exasperation colored his cheeks, sent pink streaks under the dark of beard hair growing in and had him palming his head. Laughter gurgled in her tummy, skipped up into her chest and tumbled inelegantly out her mouth.

“What?” he barked, “is so funny?”

“I’m your girlfriend, am I?” She had to bite her lip not to laugh again. She took a step back. “You don’t think you should’ve consulted me about that?” Yes, yes, yes. She’d be this incredible man’s girlfriend. She’d be the best girlfriend he could ask for. “You don’t think maybe we might’ve discussed it?” She made her eyes go wonder-wide, as if the suggestion was more outlandish than Paris, and in a way it was. “Girlfriend is a major step up from the girl I’m having a thing with.” She made an it was this big gesture, holding her arms open. “Major.”

It took him all the way to the final word before he suspected she was teasing. His whole body stilled. “How is that funny to you?” He slapped a hand on his chest. “Are all relationships so hard to understand?”

“Yes.” She hopped from foot to foot in a jig to punctuate that. “You’re sunk, baby.”

He shook his head. “Zarley, did I screw up? God, put me out of my misery.” No misery in his voice, no darkness in his eyes, but he wasn’t on solid ground. “I don’t care what we call this thing we’re doing. After last night, after today,” he reached a hand out to her, “I need to know if you want to keep doing it or you’re simply worried I’ll go back to being a drunk if you leave.”

This would be the moment to fling herself in his arms. Too easy. She put her hands to the edge of her tee, yanked it up, flashed him bare breasts and hard nipples and bolted. There was only one place to run. She fled to the bedroom and up on the bed. He took his sweet damn time coming after her. He moved about, turning off appliances, lights. She stripped down to panties and turned on a bedside lamp. When he got here she was going to jump him so hard.

He stood in the doorway, in the muted lamplight, and her throat went tight. This man did it for her with his intense manner and extreme enthusiasms. He was the thrill of competition without the risk of failure and the joy of winning without giving your whole life over to its ambition.

He made her skin prickle with awareness, her blood fizz and her muscles fire. “Get over here, Back Booth.”

He stripped off, eyes never leaving her, and stepped onto the end of the bed. “You weren’t bouncing on my bed, were you?”

There was threat in that tone, it sent a prickling thrill up her spine. She bounced, once, twice and collided with him when he reached for her. But a well-placed shove made him step back, feet tangling in the covers. He went down to his knees, which brought his face level with places she wanted to feel his lips. She put a hand to his hair but forgot who she was playing with, he yanked her ankles and she bounced to her ass, he yanked them again and she was staring up at him from her back, laughing in his face.

“You don’t get to bounce on my bed without me.” The implication was clear. He didn’t want her doing anything without him.

“Oh yeah, what are you going to do about it?” Wreck her mind, send her body, break the bed. Oh, please.

He shifted and his hipbone pinched her thigh, he brought his lips to her neck. She flinched, he was scratchy, her hand coming to rest on his face.