He follows my gaze. "What do people call it? Retail therapy?"
"Most people buy clothes. Makeup."
"Bondage gear?"
I blush. "Probably." I turn to him. "Really? You bought a breakup apartment? What's wrong with a haircut?"
"How much shorter could I go?"
"You could shave your head."
He raises a brow really?
I nod really. Move closer. Run my fingers over his neck. Around the back of his head.
His eyes flutter closed as he leans into my touch.
It's not our usual dynamic. It's soft, romantic, sweet.
Me, tending to him.
Not—
I don't even know how to describe it.
"Or dye it red," I say.
His eyelids flutter open. His soulful browns fill with intensity. Affection. Or need. Or demand.
Or all three.
"I like it this way." He slips his arm around my waist. Holds my body against his. "But you're right. I could have."
"I cut mine after Mom…"
"It suits you."
I motion to the terrace. "It suits you."
"Thanks."
"You too." My gaze shifts to the balcony beneath us. "Maybe next time, I'll be able to afford the apartment."
His posture stiffens. He releases me. Turns toward the water. "One day."
He's pulling away.
He doesn't want to talk about it. This ending? Or the financial nature of our arrangement?
Or the fact he bought this apartment because his fiancée dumped him?
I'm not ready for the answer.
I'm barely ready to be in his space.
"Have you spent a lot of time here?" I motion to the stairs. Move down to the first level.
He follows me into the quiet, clean room. "I was fifty-fifty for a while. Then we launched a new division. It made sense to be here." He pulls the sliding door closed. Clicks the lock.
It's silly. A lock on the door to the balcony. How could anyone access the terrace?
But that's Ty.
Always guarded.
"You were here, half the time, for the last year?" I cross to the couch.
"Yes," he says.
"And full time for the last few months."
"You want to ask me something."
I swallow a sip of my drink. Will it to make this less complicated. It doesn't. "Why didn't you call?"
"What?"
"My mom died and you didn't call. You must have known. You knew and you didn't call or send flowers or see how I was."
"I did."
"What?" I swallow hard. "You did?"
He nods. "I sent flowers. I wanted to do more. But I didn't trust myself to see you. And I wouldn't be that man."
"Did you really think you'd fuck me?"
"I wasn't willing to risk it."
He was worried he'd cheat on his fiancée.
I don't know if I want to slap him or congratulate him on the restraint.
"And after that? After your fiancée left?" I ask.
"You won't like my answer."
"Try me."
His eyes meet mine. "I wanted to fuck you."
"What are we doing now?"
"We're getting married."
"So you could only fuck me if I'd marry you?" That makes no sense.
"I can't fuck you then let you go."
"What if I call this off now?"
"I haven't fucked you yet."
"Technically."
"It's different," he says. "Don't pretend it isn't."
It is. And it's not just that he hasn't been inside me.
He hasn't been rough yet. Not the way he can be.
Not enough to scare me.
"So you'll only fuck me if I agree to ten years without other men?" I ask.
"You already agreed. Are you changing your mind?"
"No."
"But you're angry I didn't call."
I nod.
"It was selfish," he says. "I knew if I saw you, I'd fuck you. And that would be it. I'd need you to be mine."
"Even though you'll never love me?"
"Yes."
Either he spends his life fucking me.
Or he ignores me.
It almost makes sense. From a certain angle.
But not one where he'll never fall in love with me. Ty is possessive, sure, but he's not that possessive.
No one is that possessive.
He wouldn't claim me just to fuck me. Would he?
Am I really so crazy that I'm okay with that?
"You're right. I could have called. I could have made sure you were okay. I'm sorry." He runs his thumb over the space between my thumb and forefinger. "You deserved better."
It's so strange on his tongue. I'm sorry. It's new, any man apologizing, but especially Ty. He gets things right the first time. "Thank you."
"If you want to leave—"
"No."
"Good." His grip around my wrist tightens.
He pulls me into a kiss. It's hard. Fast. Hungry.
And under that, tender.
Like he's desperate to give something of himself to me.
Whatever it is, I want to take it.
My lips part. His tongue slips into my mouth. Dances with mine.
There's no other way to explain it.
He kisses me like he's claiming me.
Maybe he is.
Here—
He can have me here.
No, I can give myself to him here. I have just as much power as he does.
He loosens his grip, then tightens it again. Not enough to hurt. Or restrict blood. Only enough I know he's in control.
He brings my hand to his cock. I cup him over his slacks. There's too much fabric. I need him. Now.
For a moment, I press my palm against him. Soft fabric against hard flesh. The warmth and pressure of him against me.