“But I have to warn you,” he says, his voice wobbling in the slightest way. “I don’t know what that means. I’m aware it might be unfair to you. You’re a question-asker, and I’m not in a place to answer them all. And, honestly, I don’t know if I ever will be. That’s a bullshit thing to do to someone—to ask them to spend time with you yet be unable to be honest and open. I know that.”
There’s the smallest blush of vulnerability on his cheeks and the tiniest blip of hesitation in his eyes.
I sit back, my world thrown off-kilter by his honesty. He knows I might not want to hear that—that he may never be emotionally available to me.
But earlier, he reminded me that I always have a choice. And he’s right. I have a choice right now.
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.