eyebrows at him. “Bitchy.”
Shit. He was bitchy. “I’m going to take a piss. Need something? Water?”
“No, but that’s very sweet of you.”
“Just trying to get your ass out of my bed so I can get some sleep.”
“Maybe I’m not done with you yet,” she threatened, and he left because, shit, he didn’t think he could take any more.
CHAPTER Nine
Lille left while Max was still sleeping, sprawled out across the mattress. He was gorgeous in the early light, jaw dark, hair disheveled, tattoos glowing in the dim light filtering through the blinds. Lille considered waking him, but the poor man had earned his sleep. After she’d thoroughly fucked him, he’d gone for a smoke and she’d fallen asleep in his bed. She guessed that bartending had tired her out more than she’d thought.
She’d woken when he came back to bed smelling like the sea and cigarettes, a not unpleasant smell, actually. She’d thought about getting up and leaving then, but rather than going to sleep himself, he’d pulled out a book thicker than her forearm and a pair of reading glasses and had begun to read. She was so surprised that she’d gone still, her heart pounding. He’d been so ridiculously hot, with his crazy sex hair and gorgeous face and reading glasses, of all things, that she’d pretended to stay asleep. She hadn’t wanted to leave while he was still awake; the smooth sheets and the sound of the wind in the palm trees lulled her back to sleep quickly, and she hadn’t woken again until morning. It was early, though, and his bed looked warm and inviting, especially with his big naked body sprawled in it.
With the thought of his naked body in the forefront of her mind, she gathered up her clothes and carried them from the room.
Max’s living room had tall windows on one side that overlooked the yard between his house and Mary’s. A rich brown leather couch dominated on the left side, facing an enormous flat-screen TV surrounded by shelf after shelf of books. Newspapers took up one side of the couch in a comfortably messy arrangement, and several more stacks of books filled one side of a dark wood table. A deep blue rug, liberally covered in dog hair, covered the floor beneath.
It was a warm room, deeply masculine, but comfortable for all that. So far she liked his body, his house, and his dog—his personality was still in question; he was clearly literate, though, so that was something.
Lille tugged on her shirt, pulling her hair out of the collar in the back, and then sat on the couch as she ruched up her leggings and slipped her feet in before standing to wrestle them the rest of the way on. She couldn’t find her socks, so she slipped on her boots without them and left them untied.
She picked up her bag by the front door where she’d dropped it on the way into the house and dug out her sunglasses and her phone to check the time: seven fifteen. No one had called—she hadn’t expected anyone to—but there was a text message.
Meet me at the Box today at 10 am. It’s Carl.
Lille mentally shrugged; she’d planned to go to the Box, anyway.
Okay, she texted back. She didn’t know who was working the morning shift, or whether Mary and John had gone back to Mary’s place or stayed at the Box, but she figured someone would be around.
She pulled out the business card with the Vegas address and tapped it against her lips. She was tempted to call the number; she even got as far as entering it into her phone when her phone chimed, indicating that she had another text.
You there? You okay? I’m here if you need anything.
It was from Paul. It was the middle of the night in San Francisco.
I’m fine, Lille replied, hoping he didn’t keep texting her. She hadn’t exactly explained herself when she’d broken it off; she’d just told him that she didn’t want to be married.
Thinking about Paul reminded her that she was sitting in the living room of the first man she’d fucked since she’d broken off her
Shit. He was bitchy. “I’m going to take a piss. Need something? Water?”
“No, but that’s very sweet of you.”
“Just trying to get your ass out of my bed so I can get some sleep.”
“Maybe I’m not done with you yet,” she threatened, and he left because, shit, he didn’t think he could take any more.
CHAPTER Nine
Lille left while Max was still sleeping, sprawled out across the mattress. He was gorgeous in the early light, jaw dark, hair disheveled, tattoos glowing in the dim light filtering through the blinds. Lille considered waking him, but the poor man had earned his sleep. After she’d thoroughly fucked him, he’d gone for a smoke and she’d fallen asleep in his bed. She guessed that bartending had tired her out more than she’d thought.
She’d woken when he came back to bed smelling like the sea and cigarettes, a not unpleasant smell, actually. She’d thought about getting up and leaving then, but rather than going to sleep himself, he’d pulled out a book thicker than her forearm and a pair of reading glasses and had begun to read. She was so surprised that she’d gone still, her heart pounding. He’d been so ridiculously hot, with his crazy sex hair and gorgeous face and reading glasses, of all things, that she’d pretended to stay asleep. She hadn’t wanted to leave while he was still awake; the smooth sheets and the sound of the wind in the palm trees lulled her back to sleep quickly, and she hadn’t woken again until morning. It was early, though, and his bed looked warm and inviting, especially with his big naked body sprawled in it.
With the thought of his naked body in the forefront of her mind, she gathered up her clothes and carried them from the room.
Max’s living room had tall windows on one side that overlooked the yard between his house and Mary’s. A rich brown leather couch dominated on the left side, facing an enormous flat-screen TV surrounded by shelf after shelf of books. Newspapers took up one side of the couch in a comfortably messy arrangement, and several more stacks of books filled one side of a dark wood table. A deep blue rug, liberally covered in dog hair, covered the floor beneath.
It was a warm room, deeply masculine, but comfortable for all that. So far she liked his body, his house, and his dog—his personality was still in question; he was clearly literate, though, so that was something.
Lille tugged on her shirt, pulling her hair out of the collar in the back, and then sat on the couch as she ruched up her leggings and slipped her feet in before standing to wrestle them the rest of the way on. She couldn’t find her socks, so she slipped on her boots without them and left them untied.
She picked up her bag by the front door where she’d dropped it on the way into the house and dug out her sunglasses and her phone to check the time: seven fifteen. No one had called—she hadn’t expected anyone to—but there was a text message.
Meet me at the Box today at 10 am. It’s Carl.
Lille mentally shrugged; she’d planned to go to the Box, anyway.
Okay, she texted back. She didn’t know who was working the morning shift, or whether Mary and John had gone back to Mary’s place or stayed at the Box, but she figured someone would be around.
She pulled out the business card with the Vegas address and tapped it against her lips. She was tempted to call the number; she even got as far as entering it into her phone when her phone chimed, indicating that she had another text.
You there? You okay? I’m here if you need anything.
It was from Paul. It was the middle of the night in San Francisco.
I’m fine, Lille replied, hoping he didn’t keep texting her. She hadn’t exactly explained herself when she’d broken it off; she’d just told him that she didn’t want to be married.
Thinking about Paul reminded her that she was sitting in the living room of the first man she’d fucked since she’d broken off her
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