Wretched Love

He even opened the door for me.

The club was much quieter than it had been last night.

It was almost deserted.

And the common room was impeccably clean. As if it hadn’t been littered with bottles and naked bodies when I left this morning.

There was an expensive scented candle burning on top of the coffee table. The coffee table with coasters, books and flowers neatly arranged on top of it.

Freaking flowers.

Every stereotype that I’d prepared for this club—for the man behind me—kept getting shattered, so I told myself to stop expecting things and just start experiencing them.

“Want a drink or anything?” Swiss asked from beside me, nodding to the fully stocked bar.

I shook my head. “I just want you.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could think too much about them. I was surprised at myself for being so brazen, for saying something like that out loud—while stone cold sober nonetheless, not counting the beer I had with Julian.

There was a small pause after I spoke, and I suddenly felt self-conscious. Did people really say that in real life? Did it sound pathetic and desperate?

Swiss answered both of those questions when he pulled me in for another kiss, again stopping it before it could be considered R-rated.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “It’s like I dreamed you up.” I smiled lazily. His fingers brushed my lips. “Yeah, I need to fuck you in the next five minutes, or I might go insane.”

Holy crap.

He walked us back down a familiar hallway, and my blood pumped hot through my body. I was tense as we walked past the other doors, nervous about encountering someone. I was barely just handling one outlaw biker, and I was completely out of my element. I wasn’t ready to socialize with anyone.

Beyond that, there was no thumping music like there was last night, nothing to mask the unmistakable sounds of sex. To mask the sounds that I couldn’t help but make. There would be no way I’d be comfortable having sex in such close quarters if we did see someone else.

Luckily, we encountered no one on the short trip to Swiss’s room. Without the haze of alcohol and the overstimulation from the night before, I caught myself thinking about the logistics of this situation. Did Swiss live here full-time? Did they all live here? Or was this some kind of crash pad scenario? Where they could bring women they wanted to have sex with without having to take them home?

Those questions, though important, did not stay in my mind for long because we entered Swiss’s room, and he closed the door behind us.

Everything looked the same as it did last night except it was daylight now.

I stared at the messy bed, frowning ever so slightly.

Swiss caught my frown.

His hand caught my chin, moving it upward so his eyes found mine.

“You frownin’, looking at the bed I plan on fuckin’ you in isn’t giving me warm fuzzies,” he told me, his voice rough.

My stomach clenched at his words, desire spreading through my blood.

“You didn’t make your bed,” I said, realizing how utterly stupid commenting on that was.

His eyes twinkled ever so slightly. “I did not,” he agreed.

I pursed my lips at his response. “It was made last night,” I commented.

His eye twinkled more. “It was.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Well, making your bed every morning is an important ritual to incorporate into your daily life,” I told him, mortified once I heard the words out loud. I sounded uptight, like a mother scolding her child.

But I couldn’t suck them back in. It was too late for that.