Sweetest Venom (Virtue #2)(11)

After a few seconds pass, I head to my living room to make myself some coffee. I’m about to cross the threshold when I stop dead in my tracks. Surprised, I find the blonde woman, her hair up in a perfect ballerina bun, or whatever the f*ck those are called, standing next to the coffee machine. Two coffee mugs sit on the countertop next to her.

Uncomfortable, I rub the front of my chest, taking in the familiar curves of her body clad in black silk. It’s hard to imagine that this poised woman who looks as though ice runs through her veins is the same uninhibited creature from last night.

“You’re still here.”

She crosses her arms, leaning her hip on the edge of the counter. “You noticed.” Our eyes connect, and I see a teasing gleam in hers. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of making some coffee.”

“No,” I clear my throat, “not at all. Thank you.”

“I don’t feel human until I’ve had my first cup of coffee,” she says.

She’s making small talk. “Yeah, same here.”

After an awkward silence, where we stare at each other, I decide to address the big elephant in the room. “About last night—”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“It’s not that. I just wanted to apologize for the way I treated you. I was angry and took it out on you and you didn’t deserve any of that. Also,” I grimace, remembering Blaire’s call and what happened afterward. “Fuck, this is embarrassing, but—”

“Stop. Don’t say anything more. You were very clear with me from the very beginning about what you were looking for. I understood and came willingly. I’m a big girl.”

“Is this some sort of test when you say one thing but mean something completely different and I’m supposed to know it?”

She smiles. “Not at all. I promise that there’s no secret meaning behind my words.”

Is this woman for real? Where has she been all my life? “Fair enough.” As I walk toward her, I notice her checking me out. “Like what you see?”

She doesn’t look away. If anything, she slows down her perusal, taking her sweet ass time. “It’s not bad.”

Her words cut through an almost visible and very tangible tension, changing the chemistry of the air. Relaxing, I grin. Yeah, this woman has balls. But I shouldn’t be surprised, not after her behavior last night. When I’m standing in front of her, I place my hands on the countertop on either side of her body, crowding her. And the woman doesn’t budge one f*cking inch.

“Careful there, beautiful.”

She licks her lips, and the sight of her tongue goes straight to my cock. “What if I don’t want to be?” She lowers her eyes to my naked chest and lifts a hand, the pads of her fingers gently caressing my tats—seemingly learning them. “Careful, that is.” Her light touch makes me want to close my eyes and enjoy the sensations running through me, but instead, I watch her tracing the ink decorating my flesh. “The Little Prince?” she asks, finally looking up.

I nod and step away from her. Her question floods me with memories of Blaire and of an idyllic afternoon spent together, and all of a sudden I’m drowning in them, in her, and in the past.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why can’t I get her out of my f*cking mind?

“Did I say something wrong?” she asks, looking adorably confused.

“No, nothing wrong … “ I want to say her name, but that’s when I realize that I don’t know it. I turn to face the living room, reclining against the countertop next to her, the length of our arms touching. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What’s your name?”

She laughs, and I find myself wanting to smile, but I can’t. “Don’t you think it’s a little too late for that?”

“Nope. Better late than never.”

She shakes her head and extends her hand in greeting. “My name is Rachel. Nice to meet you …?”

I take her hand in mine, but don’t move. “Ronan.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Ronan. You have a lovely apartment.” She looks away, breaking the staring contest we have going on. She focuses on a replica of a famous black and white photograph of US troops running in the water heading toward the shore.

“You have good taste in art.”

“Do you know Robert Capa?” I ask, pleasantly surprised.

“Yes, I do. I’m a big fan of his work.” She walks toward the frame to take a better look at it. “I didn’t peg you for the kind of guy to be into photography.”

I chuckle and cross my arms, my hands under my armpits. “Really?” I say wryly.

“Yes, I mean, I’m well aware that I met you at an art exhibit—”

“Almost. As I recall, we never did make it inside,” I interrupt, teasing her.

She blushes. “Semantics. Anyway, just because you were going to an exhibit doesn’t mean that you—” Her attention is caught by something lying on the floor. My blood pumping, I watch her bend over and retrieve another framed photograph. Silently cursing Jackie and wishing her to hell for that, I watch as the blonde woman admires the object in her hands. Without looking at it, I know it’s a picture of a laughing Ollie, wild hair and all, being chased by a puppy at the park. I’m proud of that one because I was able to capture in that one frame the innocence and playfulness of his personality.