The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(80)

“I saw him.” Even now, a month later, the feeling of foolishness hadn’t dissipated one jot. He made a practice of trusting no one except himself and S?ren, and yet for some stupid sentimental misguided reason, he’d trusted Sam. “Don’t tell me I didn’t see what I saw.”

Sam put her hand to her forehead.

“It’s hard to explain,” Sam said.

“Try me.”

“The man you saw me with is named Alex. Four years ago, Alex was Allison, and Allison was my girlfriend. Allison told me one day she was a man trapped in a woman’s body, and she couldn’t live like that anymore. Now she’s gotten hormone therapy, has a five-o’clock shadow and a voice two octaves deeper. Alex or Allison didn’t really matter to me that night. I just missed her. I mean, him. Alex-son.”

Kingsley narrowed his eyes at her.

“So, Alex…?”

“Right,” Sam said. “Let me rephrase my promise to you. I’ve never been with a dick, Kingsley. But if I’m ever going to be with a dick, you’ll be the dick.”

Kingsley let out a breath that he’d been holding in for an entire month. The breath turned into a groan.

“I am such a dick.” Kingsley sighed.

“You are,” Sam said. “But I forgive you.”

“I thought the man you were kissing was a little on the short side. And thin.”

“I like my men the way like I like my women—with vaginas.”

“You can slap me if you want. I deserve it.” He pointed at his cheek and waited.

Sam raised her eyebrow. “Looks like someone beat me to the beating. Now that you know I’m not a lying liar, are you going to tell me what the f*ck is going on and who the f*ck beat you up and where the f*ck you’ve been and why the f*ck you’re drinking wine in the middle of the night and why the f*ck I can’t stop saying f*ck?”

Her words were light, but her eyes were shadowed with concern.

He exhaled heavily. This was not a conversation he wanted to have tonight. Or ever. But he’d been such an idiot, been so cold to her for the past month that he knew he owed her.

“Come in,” he said. “I’m not going to talk about this in the hallway.”

He let her in the bedroom and set the wine bottle by the bed.

“Damn,” she said, looking at his bed. “You get in a wrestling match with your covers?”

“I have nightmares sometimes,” he admitted. “I had them tonight.”

“Is that what the wine’s for?”

“It helps me sleep.”

Sam leaned across the bed and straightened his wild sheets.

“What sort of nightmares?” She f luffed a pillow and laid it back on the bed.

“The sort you have when you used to have the job I had. The sort of nightmares you have when you’ve been shot four times.”

“So your nightmares aren’t the showing-up-naked-atschool type?”

“I have dreams where I’m naked at St. Ignatius. They aren’t nightmares.”

Sam laughed, and the laugh turned into a sigh, and the sigh turned into her wrapping her arms around his shoulders and holding him close. He hesitated before returning the embrace. He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder and inhaled her scent, sandalwood and cedar. She was the only woman he knew who wore men’s cologne. And yet, against her soft skin it smelled utterly feminine and alluring.

“I’m sorry you had bad dreams,” she said.

“All my nightmares are of my own making.”

“Do you have them every night?”

“If I have someone in bed with me, I usually don’t dream.”

“And here I thought you f*cked someone every single night because you were a nympho.”

“That, too,” he said.

Sam laughed and rubbed her forehead.

“Okay,” she finally said.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, get into bed. You give me the answers to my questions, and I’ll give you someone to sleep with tonight so you won’t have any more bad dreams.”

She walked to the bedroom door and locked it.

“You’re sleeping with me?”

“Just sleeping,” she said. “I mean, we’re sleeping when we’re done talking.”

Sam kicked off her shoes and yanked off her socks. Yes, it was happening. Sam was taking her clothes off in his bedroom. He must still be dreaming. And having a good dream for once.

“Do you have something I can sleep in? I usually sleep in a T-shirt and boxers. I get cold.”

She pulled off her jacket, unbuttoned her vest. And when she started in on her shirt, Kingsley did the only thing he could do.

He took off his own shirt and offered it to her.

“King.” It was all she said.

“Take it.”

“This is one of your new fancy shirts from Vitale.”

“It is.”

“And you’re going to let me sleep in it?”

“I’m asking you to sleep in it.”

“What happened to that whole thing about how a woman wearing your shirt is like a man coming on her tits?”

“I said ‘back.’”

“Tits are sexier.”