Sin (Vegas Nights 1)

Hell, her lying in my bed invited questions I wasn’t ready to answer.

I fired up my computer and settled in at the island, ready to work. I dealt with the seemingly endless stream of emails, contacted the web designer to make amends to the Fox parent website, and even sent an email to Mia Rykman about another marketing campaign. An hour passed before I heard the telltale creaking of the bottom stairs, telling me that Dahlia had probably waited as long as she possibly could before coming down.

“I’m surprised,” I said, typing while staring at the screen. “I thought you’d have been down here forty-five minutes ago.”

“I tried to show some restraint,” she replied. “I lost my lives three times over on Candy Crush, found out what kind of pizza I’d be, and read about five Buzzfeed articles based on Kardashian memes.”

“Sounds like a solid way for a businesswoman to pass an hour.” I smirked, turning to look at her.

Fuck.

She was wearing another one of my white shirts. It swamped her, skimming her thighs, and was just thin enough that I could see she was wearing her underwear again. Still no bra, but she didn’t need it in that. Hell, she probably didn’t need a bra at all. She had perky, round tits, and right now, I wanted to pull her over against me, tear open the shirt, and tease her with my mouth until she begged me for more.

“It is. Even I need downtime. And stop looking at me like I’m your breakfast.”

“It’s time for breakfast,” I said, following her with my eyes when she sat down.

“It’s way too early for breakfast.” She leaned forward on the counter and rested her chin on top of her hands. Hesitating for a moment, she said softly, “Can I ask you a question?”

I dropped my attention back to my screen. The gentle tone of her voice told me I probably wasn’t going to like what she had to ask. “Mmm,” I replied noncommittally.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“That’s a ‘you might as well because I know that if you don’t ask me now, you’ll ask me later.’ Since there’s a good chance I’m not going to like your question, you may as well get it over and done with.”

“You’re too observant.”

“Perhaps you’re too easy to read.” I glanced up with a pointed look.

“Next time, I won’t bother asking you anything.”

“You still haven’t, unless you’re counting your question about the question. Next time, sweetheart, don’t ask if you can ask. Just ask it.”

Silence.

And then, “Why don’t you have any pictures? Anywhere?”

I wasn’t surprised at all.

My fingers stilled, hovering just above the keys in front of me. “Am I supposed to have pictures anywhere?”

“Answering a question with a question. Cute,” she muttered, getting up. “Can I make a coffee?”

“Go wild.” I typed again.

She fidgeted around the kitchen behind me. A few huffs and puffs exaggerated her movements, and after one particularly loud, grating sigh, I saved what I was working on and turned around.

“What are you doing?”

She pointed at the machine. “What is this thing? How do you work it?”

I rolled my eyes and got up. Within seconds, I had the machine spitting coffee out into the cup beneath it and had even retrieved the milk for her. “You’re welcome.” I sat back down and got back to work.

I’d barely typed out a paragraph when she sat down and stared at me.

Stared was the wrong word.

She glared at me, hitting me with a look that could melt an iceberg.

“Any reason you’re looking at me as though I’ve grown two heads?” I asked, pausing yet again in my work. Why I didn’t stop, I didn’t know.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer mine.”

“That’s because yours was a rhetorical question and total bullshit,” she said firmly, taking her seat again. She tugged at the collar of the shirt, a hint of awkwardness settling over her expression briefly before disappearing. “I’m just wondering, that’s all. You don’t have to answer…I just assumed you would have some family photos or something somewhere.”

I remembered why I didn’t bring anyone to my house.

Ever.

“Nope,” was my answer.

Just nope.

Seventeen

Dahlia

I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. The tap-tap of his typing filled the air in the kitchen as bright rays filtered in from the hallway, lighting up the space behind him. His lightly tanned skin was almost golden against the orangey hue of the sunrise that was taking over the sky outside. His hair was messy and unkempt, a mixture of sex, sleep, and what looked an awful lot like stress.

Stress I was getting the feeling I was the cause of.

Damien didn’t look up from his laptop despite my gaze being fixed on him. This conversation was apparently over when it had barely begun, and whatever it was that had woken him up so early—and by default, me—was apparently related to my question, judging by the way his attitude had changed. Gone was the relaxed, teasing man I’d enjoyed food with late last night. He’d been replaced by the Damien Fox I knew well.