Misconduct(52)

Or to start counting things, for crying out loud.

“Yes.” I trailed my lips across her cheek and down to her neck. “Because you can’t go home,” I whispered as her arms circled my neck and held me close.

“Why?”

I squeezed her ass, pressing her to my hardening cock. “Because your * is like gold, and in a matter of hours, I’ll want more of it.”

“Ugh,” she growled, pushing me away but smiling. “I see men in their thirties are no tamer than men in their twenties.”

I pinched her chin between my thumb and index finger. “Lucky you,” I replied.

She shook her head at me, probably deciding to pack away her escape plan for now. She was stuck.

“I’m going to go make some phone calls,” I told her, backing away. “Feel free to use the shower, and there’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”





THIRTEEN


EASTON





A

rguing with Tyler Marek was a waste of time, especially when you didn’t really disagree.

I should’ve gone home.

I had work to get ahead on, an oven that I could’ve been cleaning, and lots of updates to be made to my website for the students and parents. Not to mention, I had leftover homemade bread in the freezer that needed to be eaten before the end of the month. I had a responsibility to Christian, and if I were his mother, I’d…

I let out a deep breath as I walked up to the vanity in his huge bathroom, having put back on his T-shirt after my shower, I rubbed the back of my head with a gray towel and shook my head.

I should go home.

But he kept wanting me.

He kept tapping at my shell like I was an egg he needed to crack. And while I constantly felt like goo that would spill everywhere if not protected by my hard outer armor, he made me feel like I didn’t need it.

Like he was going to take care of everything.

Here, in his cave of a house, with its shutters drawn and big, empty rooms, the serene glow of the soft lamps and the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, I’d finally relaxed.

He made me feel safe, and while I didn’t need a man to protect me, I kind of enjoyed letting some of the worry go. For the first time in a long time, I’d closed my eyes and fallen asleep last night without a struggle, peaceful in the feeling that someone was next to me.

And when I woke up, I hadn’t had the split-second moment of panic I always had before I registered that I was safe.

Instead, I’d woken up this morning, and rather than quickly scanning the room and taking inventory, my eyes had immediately fallen on Tyler’s back as he walked to the bathroom and winked at me over his shoulder before disappearing into the shower.

I found his hairbrush on the expansive sink counter, along with a hair dryer. After combing out my hair, I blew it out, threw the used towel in the hamper, and made up his bed. I also folded my clothes neatly, placing them on the chair in the corner, and scanned the room to make sure everything was in its place.

Or in its place as well as I could tell.

Stepping out of the room and into the hallway – if you could call it that – I slowly turned my head, taking in the surroundings that I had failed to notice last night as Tyler practically hauled me upstairs.

The landing was circular with a railing, so you could lean over and peer downstairs. Bedroom doors – or I assumed that’s what they were – lined the edges, and there was another staircase, leading to a third floor. The dark teak floors glimmered in the gentle lighting from the chandelier hanging above, and all of the wooden furniture surfaces shined. The lemon scent of wood polish, leather, and cologne filled my lungs, and it brought a smile to my face.

Men lived here, and those scents brought back memories of growing up with Jack and my father.

Trailing down the stairs, I stepped hesitantly, poking out my head with a watchful eye. I was still afraid Christian or someone else might appear and I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to explain myself.

Peering to the right, I spied the foyer, so I turned left, heading toward the back of the house, figuring I’d find the kitchen. At the sound of Tyler’s voice, I stopped at the entrance to another hallway and caught a glimpse of a light coming through another door.

I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he had that deep, frigid tone that he’d tried using on me in his office last Saturday, so I deduced he was probably on a business call.

I continued looking for the kitchen, my stomach swimming with butterflies at the image of him conducting business and issuing orders with his scary arched eyebrow while wearing nothing but those jeans.

When I found it, I rummaged through the refrigerator, craving carbs and protein.

I’d want him again when he was done with his big, bad call, so I needed energy.

When I switched on the radio, Rihanna’s “Only Girl” filled the room, and I started bobbing my head as I padded around the kitchen in my bare feet. I chopped up some leftover potatoes I’d found in the refrigerator and fried up some bacon. After mixing up some eggs, chives, salt, and pepper, I poured the mixture into a pan, scooped the bacon pieces and potatoes on top, and then placed the dish in the oven to bake for a country French omelet.

Before I knew it, I was happily lost in fixing place settings at the granite island with coffee and orange juice and chopping up fresh pineapple, strawberries, and blueberries for a salad, as well as drawing hot biscuits from the oven. I figured they were homemade, since I’d found them in a plastic container in the refrigerator, so all I’d needed to do was heat them up.