Diary of a Bad Boy(55)

Sutton: Tell them not to waste their time. I’m not going.

Roark: Come as a business associate.

Sutton: Because that’s all I am to you?

Roark: I can’t do more.

Roark: Please, Sutton. Come.

Sutton: I’m sorry, Roark. I’m not like you. It will be too confusing.

Roark: Please . . .





Roark: I keep turning around thinking I’m going to see you.

Sutton: You’re not.

Roark: Are you really not here?

Sutton: Yes, I’m really not there.

Roark: Fuck.

Sutton: What did you expect, Roark?

Roark: Maybe that you would set aside your wants for one goddamn night and be there for me. After all, aren’t we at least friends?

Sutton: We are colleagues. We work together. After camp, we’re done.

Roark: Bullshit. You can’t just stop talking to me.

Sutton: I can and I will. I hope they raise a lot of money tonight. Don’t miss your flight tomorrow. Our schedule is jam-packed, and we need you ready to work.

Roark: Please come.

Roark: Suttttton. Where r u?

Roark: I want 2 c u.

Roark: Fuckkkk I swear I keep seeing u at this party.

Roark: Are u sleepin?

Roark: Can I come over?

Roark: Lass . . .





She told me not to come over. She said she wanted nothing to do with me. She wants so much more than what I can give her and yet, here I am, standing outside her door, desperate, wound up with need, and about to do the one thing she told me not to do: take something I don’t deserve.

I raise my fist but then stop myself and rest my forehead on the wood.

I drank way too much tonight. Hell, I drank way too much the last few days. Ever since she left my office with that pain in her eyes, I haven’t been able to get my head on straight. Am I really so scared of intimacy that I turned her away?

Yeah, I am.

I have no fucking clue what love is; I was never taught the emotion. I have no idea how to feel it or how to give it. Sutton is a girl you love. She’s . . . God, she’s so fucking perfect.

The long blonde hair that falls past her shoulders, those smoldering yet innocent eyes, and her sweet southern accent that rolls off her tongue. She’s addicting, and I need a piece of her.

Before I can stop myself, I knock on the door, loudly.

It’s past two in the morning. It’s way too late, or maybe early, whatever way you want to look at it, but this can’t wait. I need to see her, need to look into her eyes, need to hold her hand. Something, anything, I just need her to open this door. To let me in even though it’s unwise.

“Sutton, open up.” I knock again, worrying that even though I know she can hear me—I’m being plenty loud enough—she might not open out of principle. I give the door another knock, just as the locks start to unlatch, sending a wave of calm through me.

The door opens, and she stands in front of me, wearing one of the two shirts of mine she still has, her hair a tangled mess, and her eyes barely open.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

“Roark, please don’t do this to me.”

“You stopped texting,” I say, stepping into the apartment and shutting the door behind me.

“It was late.”

I move forward but she takes a step backward, so I take another step forward and we do the same “dance” until she’s pressed against the opposite wall, me closing in.

“I wanted you at the event tonight.”

“Sometimes we don’t get what we want, Roark.”

I reach out and take her hand in mine, my eyes cast down. “You were punishing me.”

I hear her sigh and look up in time to see her shaking her head. She moves into me and rests her hand on my chest, her fingers playing with the lapel of my suit jacket. “I wasn’t punishing you, Roark. I’m trying to keep my heart safe. I feel a lot for you, and I can’t keep playing this tug of war.”

“I’m sorry.” I glide my hand up her arm, past her collarbone, to her cheek where I slightly cup it. She leans into my touch and my heart skips a beat. My body hums, my mind’s a pile of mush, all clarity gone.

I want her, so goddamn bad.

I can’t go another moment without knowing what she tastes like, without learning the feeling of her lips passing over mine.

I’m desperate to hear what she sounds like when I’m working my hands over her body.

“Fuck . . . Sutton.” Chest heavy, my pulse pounding, I lean in.

Eyes wide, her hand gripping tighter to my suit jacket, her body hums, her breasts rising and falling, waiting for my next move.

The air becomes stagnant as the city sleeps around us, not a single sound echoes through the plaster walls, making my pulse thunder in my ears.

Don’t do it.

I bite the side of my cheek, unable to listen to the rational part of my brain. The demand for her is too strong, and it’s why I feel myself pulling her toward her bed.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she asks, and when her legs hit the mattress, she’s forced to sit. A small gasp pops out of her, but when I kneel on the bed and guide her back until she’s lying down, her eyes soften. “Roark . . .”

My hand falls to her leg where I pass my fingers lightly over her thigh, up to her hipbone, dragging her shirt with it. It’s then that I notice she’s not wearing any underwear. My shaky hand pauses as I stare at her.