I’d fuck you and walk away.
Yes, my body demands. He’s the only man you’ve ever truly felt this way about, who you dream about, who you’ve made the hero of your book.
“No,” I push past my lips, the hardest word I’ve ever said.
His breath hitches, and he shuts his eyes, breathing rapidly as he hovers over me.
Gathering strength and fortitude, I shove at him and dart under his arms. Space. I need space. My control is nonexistent when it comes to him. I have to get out of here. Out of this penthouse. I need to go for a walk around the block or get into Red—no, Cindy and family are there—or just get back on the elevator, ride up and down, and pretend I’m at a fair. I could sleep there, put down a pillow and a blanket, bring my laptop, and jump back into my story—
“Stop overthinking. Get dressed,” he tells me, breaking into my thoughts.
“What?” I call out to him as he stalks to his bedroom door. “I’m going to ride the elevator! Why would I get dressed?”
He pivots around, his jaw popping, hands fisted. “We’re getting out of this penthouse,” he snaps. “Meet me out here in five minutes.”
“It’s late!”
“I don’t care!”
I look down at the peek of his . . . member . . . from his towel. My throat dries. The top is all I see, mushroom shaped and thick and hard—holy shit, will my hand even wrap around that?
His lids open and follow my gaze. He places his hand over . . . it. “Ten minutes!”
He slams his door.
Chapter 16
GISELLE
Just pretend like that little showdown never happened. That’s the ticket, I tell myself as we walk down a mostly quiet street to a diner across from the penthouse. A few people are out, darting in and out of upscale bars and moving on. Happy, probably tipsy groups that I gaze at longingly, wishing I had those kinds of connections. Myrtle isn’t the kind who participates in bars, and shoot, I miss my sister most of all.
Devon opens the door to the diner for me, and I ease past him and take the place in. It’s cute yet classy, decorated to resemble a fifties café, with red booths, black-and-white tile, and pictures of old movie stars on the white walls. People dressed in all manner of clothing, ready to eat after partying downtown, pack the inside, and I wonder how long we’ll have to wait to be seated—how much longer I have to endure the silence between us.
In my peripheral I eyeball him while he talks to the server at the door. He came out of his room in jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt that might have exactly matched his eyes. Pfft. He took one look at me, because I hadn’t moved since he’d left, and stopped in his tracks.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” He argued with me when I told him I wasn’t going.
He told me he was hungry—after all those cookies—and tossed a hoodie at me. I came because I liked the way he wanted me with him, that little thrill, so I stuck my feet into flip-flops and went.
I think he wants out of the heat of what’s between us, but I can’t figure out why he needs me to come with him. Isn’t that just the opposite of what he should want? Men. And they say women are mercurial? Please. I tuck my hands in the front pockets of the hoodie, sniffing the smell of him in the dark fabric, swooning—nope. No swooning. Focus. The smell of waffles and butter and syrup teases me, and I sigh and look around the place.
Maybe food is the right thing. Can’t have sex? Try eating. And now, I’m back to man logic. Is this how all men shore up their sexual urges? I picture Devon with a mound of pancakes in front of him, stuffing them in his mouth.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks as the server leads us through a myriad of tables to one in the back.
“Random thoughts.” I slide into the red booth, and he takes the seat across from me. After grabbing the menu from behind the napkin dispenser, I place it in front of my face. He leans over and thumps it, and I lower it. “What?” I ask rather crossly.
He studies me, eyes ghosting over my hoodie. A small smile tugs at his lips. “Cindy.”
I huff out a laugh. We had a tiff, but the effects of it seem distant now. He was honest with me, gave me a choice, and now it’s done. Okay, moving on.
“She’s somewhere celebrating by eating other insects. Familial bliss.”
After pulling out my phone, I show him the image of him sprawled out on my bed, the spider resting on his bicep.
“Happy birthday, Giselle.”