If I Were You(Inside Out 01)(54)

We stare at each other and his scrutiny is so intense that I feel as if he’s crawling inside me and searching my soul for confirmation I’ve spoken the truth. Who or what made him this distrustful? Who or what damaged him? And does it really matter? I relate to him far more than I thought I could. I understand him beyond events and names and places.
I reach up and stroke his cheek. “Whatever happens between us stays with us.” My voice is soft, hoarse. I am affected by this man on so many levels I can’t begin to understand.
His eyes narrow and soften, and I watch the tension slide from his face, the flecks of orange fire flicker to life in his eyes. The air around us shifts and I feel the now familiar swell of desire in my stomach, expanding and threatening to consume me. I feel an unexpected, intense rise of panic. I don’t want breakfast, these few minutes of normalcy; I realize in their potential loss, I crave for some unnamed, unrecognized reason.
His hands settle on my waist, branding me through the thin cotton, and his expression reflects he too is thinking of how close to naked I am.
His attention lowers to the opening of the robe and my nipples tighten and ache instantly. “Do you know how badly I want you right now?” he asks, his fingers sliding to the V of the robe and starting to tug it lower.
I want him — I want him as much as I want my next breath but a voice in my head screams, not yet. Not until after breakfast. I grab the robe and pull it closed before pressing my hand on his chest to hold him back. “Oh no. None of this or that or whatever we might do. Not until you caffeinate me, feed me, and let me brush my teeth.” I grab the phone on the wall. “And aren’t the eggs burning?”
“I turned the stove off,” he says, laughing, a low and sultry sound that blends with the ringing of the phone line. He leans in and kisses my ear, his breath hot on my neck. “Because I was hoping to turn you on. I guess I’ll have to try harder after we eat.” He pushes away from me as a female attendant speaks into the receiver. “Can I help you, Mr. Merit?”
I stare at Chris’s broad shoulders as he attends the food. He’s left me breathless and aching and I wonder why the heck I thought breakfast was important.
“Mr. Merit?” the woman on the line queries, jolting me out of my reverie.
“Yes, hi. Mr. Merit would like a toothbrush and toothpaste, please.”
“Of course,” the woman replies. “I’ll send them right up.”
I replace the receiver and head for the coffee pot, removing two cups from the cabinet above it. I glance at Chris as he fills two plates with his creations and he smiles at me, his eyes brimming with mischief and fun. He’s all too aware he’s left me fanning myself and he loves it.
“I like you in my robe.” He wiggles an eyebrow. ”I like you even better out of my robe.”
Heat rushes over me and it’s not from the stove. He’s so charming and sexy. “I’d look better showered and dressed like you.”
“I guess that’s a matter of opinion.”
I am glowing from his attention. How any woman could not glow from a compliment from Chris Merit? ”How do you like your coffee?”
“Lots of cream. It’s in the fridge.”
I laugh at this announcement.
His brows dip. “What’s funny about creamer in the fridge.”
“I expected you to say you like it straight up. You know. The whole biker, cool artist persona. I thought you’d want your coffee so strong and black it grows extra hair on your chest.”
“I have plenty of hair on my chest, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and I like sugar with my poison.”
It’s an odd comment and like so many others with Chris, I suspect it comes with a hidden meaning. I wonder if he will be around long enough for me to understand him and I find I’m hoping he will be. Already, my vow to live in the moment with Chris is becoming a desire to live in the next one.
He was right. He’s dangerous. Or maybe he didn’t say dangerous. I’m not sure why he’s warned me away so much, but I’ll say it for him. He’s dangerous and I’ve never wanted to live on the edge more in my life.



Chapter Twenty

Description: butterfly

A few minutes later, my toothbrush and toothpaste have been sent to us via a chute in the wall by the fridge that resembles the drive-thru bank machines. I rushed off to brush my teeth before eating, which Chris had found amusing, and returned.
I am now sitting with Chris at his kitchen table, each of us with coffee sweetened with hazelnut creamer, which is apparently not easy to find in Paris and is a favorite of his.
“I’ve never tried hazelnut,” I confess. “I’m kind of a straight vanilla girl.” The silly statement is out before I can pull it back.
Chris’s lips quirk. “Well then, I aspire to break your vanilla habit.” He lifts his chin to my cup. “Try it.”
Oh good grief, he had to go there, but then I invited it. I wonder what he defines as vanilla. Me against that window? Was that vanilla? Not to me, but I’ve been so very vanilla for so very long. And I’m finally allowing myself to crave more from life.
“Or you can tell me what you’re thinking instead,” Chris suggests.
“Oh.” I blink and realize I’m thinking a little too hard and obviously about the ‘vanilla’ comment. “No. I don’t think I’ll share those thoughts.”
He looks intrigued but I ignore him and sip the coffee and the warm, nutty beverage as my reply. “It’s good. Really good.”