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Apprehension crept in, and I watched him warily as he took the dishes to the sink and rinsed them off.
“What do you mean?” Had I walked into a trap? Had I fallen for some nefarious plan that was worse than Thorne kidnapping me? Was I really that dumb?
He opened the dishwasher and put away the plates and his silverware—my plastic fork went in the garbage—and when he’d shut it, he turned to me. He wiped his hands off with a dish towel, slow movements that were almost sensual, especially given the way he was watching me.
“You’ll be sleeping with me in my room.”
Come again?
“Um, no, thanks, I’m good.”
“It’s not up for debate, Whitney.”
I laughed without humor. “Oh yes, it certainly is. I’m not fucking sleeping with you. Nice try. You’ll just have to get your—your jollies somewhere else.”
A strangled sound erupted from him. If he’d been drinking something, he would have spit it everywhere, probably. “My jollies?”
“Yeah, your fucking jollies, you freak.” Jesus Christ, what the fuck was wrong with him? “Why is that so goddamn funny? Why is everything I say fucking funny to you?” I was getting angrier and angrier, the idea of sleeping with him like a fireball exploding in my chest. But not just that, it was the way he’d told me what I’d be doing. It was how I’d almost said okay without a thought.
Because I’d liked him telling me what to do.
Fuck that. He wasn’t my boss or my owner.
He was fucking nothing to me.
His eyes seemed like they were almost glowing in the low light and he set the dish rag down. “Well, good thing I’m not trying to get any jollies.” He paused, his long lashes falling against his cheeks as he looked down at his hands. When he raised his eyes back to mine, my heart jumped at the resolve in them. “I’m not trying to get anything you’re not willing to give me, Whitney. And one day, you’ll be ready to give me everything. But until then, I’ll wait. Can’t say I’ll do that part patiently, but I’ll do it all the same.”
Then he turned around like he hadn’t just stolen all the air from my lungs with his words. I watched him open a cupboard and grab something. Glass clinked, and when he was facing me again, he held a bottle of whiskey and two old fashioned whiskey glasses.
I tried to keep my face neutral, to not let him know just how deeply his words had affected me.
Give him everything?
What the fuck did that even mean? Was he talking about sex? He had to be, right?
Court sat next to me, angling his chair out so his long legs could have space. His knee bumped my thigh, and I shifted my leg so he wasn’t touching me anymore.
He uncapped the bottle and poured a few generous fingers of whiskey into both glasses, then slid one over to me. “I think you could use something to take the edge off,” he said, a slow smile curving his lips.
I stared at his mouth a beat too long, and when he took the plump bottom one between his teeth as if he was taunting me, I shot him a glare that only made him laugh. A flush crept across my cheeks and I picked up the glass.
“After my own heart,” I said sarcastically, happy to finally have something to take the edge off. I took a sip, let the intoxicating burn soothe my frazzled nerves and coat my churning stomach. When I glanced up at him, he hadn’t touched his drink. His big hand was curled around the glass, but he was just watching me.
“And what if I was?” he finally asked, picking up his own glass and bringing it to his lips, his eyes never leaving mine.
FOURTEEN
I laughed, but even I could hear the uncertainty behind the sound.
This was skirting territory I’d never, ever traversed before, and I quickly moved away from it and brought us back to our earlier conversation before he’d distracted me with alcohol. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Yes, you are. This isn’t about sex, Whitney. I don’t have enough rooms in my house for everyone to get their own.”
“Why can’t I just sleep on the couch?”
“Vincent’s on the couch already. He doesn’t sleep very much, so he’s up at all hours. Sleeping on the same level as him would mean you really wouldn’t be sleeping.”
Fuck. “Don’t you have a basement?”