Page 73 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ZORA
There’s a word for me.
Idiot.
Moron.
Dumb as a box of rocks.
Though that last one’s a phrase, it still fits.
Because it takes a total lack of sense for me to be sitting outside of Cyrus’s house at ten o’clock at night. I press my forehead against the steering wheel. Serves me right if someone called the neighborhood watch. How would I explain my presence?
Hi, Officer. I promise I’m only contemplating a little ill-advised hot sex, not a B&E.
That should go over swell.
A knock echoes on my window, and I jerk my head up, fully expecting to see a uniform.
But it’s not.
It’s Cyrus.
He crosses his arms over his powerful chest, cocking his head. The gestures snap my paralysis, and I shove the driver’s door open and climb out of the car. Shutting the door behind me, I can’t look away fromhis hooded gaze. He’s a master at concealing his thoughts. And his shuttered expression doesn’t aid me in deciphering what’s going on in his head either. What is he thinking of finding me parked outside his house like a groupie? Especially after I haven’t talked to him in a week? Especially after the shit show of earlier today?
“So you’ve made your mind up about coming inside?”
“Seems so.” When he arches his eyebrow, I sigh. “Yes.”
He doesn’t say anything else but pivots and walks toward his house. I lock my car, glancing down and noticing his bare feet under the frayed hem of his jeans. I’ve seen him in jeans and a T-shirt before. But not bare feet. It’s oddly ... intimate. And that’s saying something since I’ve had his fingers on my clit. Yet desire stirs low in my belly, and I’m glancing down to check if my sweater sufficiently hides my already beading nipples.
I silently heave a sigh of relief. Looking good down there.
Moments later, that relief deep dives into a jittery anxiety as I step over the threshold of Cyrus’s home and he leads me past his living and dining rooms into his kitchen. The heartbeat of his home, I’m quickly learning.
He makes a beeline for the refrigerator and pulls free a bottle of wine, then detours for a cabinet, removing a wineglass. Just one. After pouring a healthy amount of the golden alcohol in it, he gently sets it in front of me.
“Take it,” he softly orders. “You look like you need it.”
Liquid courage. Seems like such a cop-out. But these are extraordinary circumstances. It isn’t every day I pop up at a man’s house to ... to fuck, I don’t know. But hell, that’s it, isn’t it? To fuck.
If I can just admit it to myself.
If I’m brave enough to ask him and take it for myself.
If I’m brave enough to be truthful with him.
And it’s the last one that has me terrified.
Because being truthful doesn’t just mean placing my career at risk. It also means walking out of here and never seeing him again.
So yes, I pick up the glass and take that wine to the head. And feel his scrutiny on me the whole time. Only when the last drop is gone do I lower the glass and meet his curious but somehow understanding gaze.
“Better?” he asks.
“No.”
