Page 77 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CYRUS
I watch from the predawn shadows of the kitchen, coffee in hand, as Zora creeps down the staircase and soundlessly makes a beeline for the clothes scattered on the living room floor. She shimmies into her jeans, and despite coming three times with her, my dick stirs at the unselfconscious sensual dance. I sip my coffee, leaning my hip against the counter, and continue to take in the show.
She rummages among the couch cushions and finally locates her bra and then her sweater. As she’s about to pull on her boots, I move from the kitchen to the living room entrance.
“Were you going to say goodbye?”
“Holyshit.” A boot flies from her hands and hits the chair leg across from her. Spinning around, she glares at me, splaying a hand across her chest. “Could you maybenotscare the living daylights out of me?”
“Sure.” I sip my coffee. “The next time you’re not sneaking out of my house at the crack of dawn, I promise not to.”
“I’m notsneaking,” she hisses, appearing offended.
I arch an eyebrow.
“I was being considerate and trying to clear out before you started your day.”
“Did I ask for that ... consideration?”
We stare at each other, her with narrowed eyes and me over the rim of my cup.
“Fine.” She throws up her hands, then plops them on her hips. “You got me. I was trying to avoid the awkward morning after.”
“Well, you definitely accomplished that,” I drawl.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
I shrug a shoulder. “A little.”
Sighing, she digs in her jeans pocket and, a moment later, ties her hair in a messy bun on top of her head.
“Can you at least offer me coffee?”
“I can do that,” I rumble, battling the lust rapidly firing inside me at that simple, easy gesture.
Maybe because I want my hands in those thick strands, tugging, tangling. You’d think I would’ve had my fill last night. But apparently not. When it comes to this woman, I’m insatiable. That, I should’ve known. Pivoting on my heel, I pad on bare feet back to the kitchen. In moments, I hand her a coffee mug and remove the creamer and sugar for her to doctor her brew how she needs it.
“Do you regret last night? Is that what”—I hike my chin in the direction of the living room—“your escape attempt was about?”
Head lowered, she stirs her coffee, the clang of the spoon against her cup the only sound in the room. I wait for her response, outwardly calm, but inside I’m tense, anxious. The last thing anyone desires to hear is they’re a mistake.
“No,” she murmurs, setting the spoon aside on the saucer the cup sits on. “I don’t regret that or you. I just ...” She lifts her head, shadows shifting in her brown gaze. “Where do we go from here? Sex complicates ... everything. It always does.”
“Not if we agree that it won’t.”
She smiles, and it strikes me as wistful. “Just because you will it not to be doesn’t mean it won’t be.” A sigh escapes her. “I’m not going tolie, Cyrus. I’m worried. I’m terrified I’m going to be your biggest regret when all of this is over.”
“Come here.”
Her gaze sharpens, and just like that, I’m hard. Shit. It’s her effect on me. I should be alarmed by it. And if she wasn’t circling the island, those rounded hips gently swaying, maybe I would be. Later. Right now, though, I can concentrate only on getting my hands on her. Again.
Once she nears me, I grasp her hips and bring her into the cradle of my body so we’re perfectly aligned. Cupping her cheek, I rub my thumb over her cheekbone and watch myself caress her. Because I can, when just days ago, I wasn’t permitted to do this.
“Will boundaries make you feel better?” I murmur.
“Yes,” she whispers. “It will.”
