Chapter 8
Keira
And the Oscar for the biggest idiot and most ungrateful person on the planet goes to Keira Weatherly.
My tired eyes are wide open, my gaze fixed on the ceiling as I ponder on the many ways I royally fucked up.
There are a number of things I regret in life.
Insulting Rhys after his warm welcome tops the list.
Contrary to our last major blowout three years ago, I had the decency to avoid dragging a sensitive and personal issue into the matter. Sex is just sex for Rhys.
Propping my face in my hands, I groan.
There I go again.
I pull my short hair in frustration.
It’s easier to believe my mouth ran away from me last night, but if I’m honest with myself, I wanted him to feel the sting. His bewildered expression suggested I might’ve hit the jugular with my words.
Now, I hate myself.
I really, really hate myself.
Even after a restless night, guilt lingers like a bad hangover.
I extended an olive branch, but Rhys didn’t respond to my text message.
I don’t blame him.
Too little. Too late.
I tried to wait up for him, but my jetlagged body gave in to exhaustion.
What time is it?
I look at the clock on the bedside table.
Seven a.m.
I sigh, fling the covers off my body and sit up.
I try to find my bearings as I allow my gaze to travel around the large bedroom decorated with so much flair.
I can’t help but shake my head at my own idiocy.
I get up and walk to the large windows.
Dawn is long gone. The sun is shining in the sky.
LA is awake.
I let my sensitive eyes adjust to the light. The brightness is both a gift and a curse, as it enhances the throb in my head from the lack of sufficient sleep. As I soak in the warm rays, in the hopes of jolting my body into action, a thought pops into my head.
He can’t be mad at me if I cook him breakfast.
He used to love my pancakes.
Before his stormy exit last night, Rhys told me not to bother with the dishes, but I couldn’t help it. After stuffing the dishwasher and cleaning a spic and span kitchen, I know the lay of the land.
With a new mission to focus on, I step into my day.
I exit the bedroom and glance at his door, which is located across from mine. Our living arrangement is too close for comfort, but beggars can’t be choosers. Ironic, considering my bad behavior. Rhys’s door is closed, so I can’t tell if he’s up or not.
At least I won’t bump into him.
I tiptoe as quiet as a mouse to the spa-like bathroom, hoping the wood floor doesn’t creek under my steps.
Once I’m behind the closed door, I exhale in relief.
I pull the t-shirt Rhys gave me to make up for not having any pjs over my head and drop it to the floor.
I look at it and shake my head, pushing away the thought that my naked body was touching something that touched his.
Sigh.
I brush my teeth and take care of business first. Once I’m done, I enter the massive white tile shower.
I allow the water to wash away my sins. Five minutes later, the soothing streams from the rainfall showerhead have perked me up.
Wrapped in a fluffy white towel, I head to the door. I open it, and peek right then left.
The coast is clear.
I emerge from the bathroom and rush to my bedroom undetected.
So far, so good.
Since the hotel lost my luggage, I only have one set of underwear. I washed it last night, but it’s still damp. I jump into the clothes I wore last night, commando.
Sigh.
I walk to the mirror and comb my fingers through my strands. The advantage of having short hair is I have nothing to fuss over.
Done.
I tiptoe down the stairs. When I reach the kitchen, I freeze.
Sweet baby Jesus.
I experience a full-body clench at the sight of a shirtless and sweaty Rhys. His back is to me with his headphones around his ears. His body moves to the beat of a song I can’t hear while his hips swing from left to right in a deliberate sway.
I approve.
I’m quite partial to the little dance move and rejoice when he does it again by mock clapping.
He picks up the tempo when he does this cool hip hop move.
I join in by gyrating my hips, circling a hand over my head, pretending I’m riding Ginuwine’s pony.
‘Magic Mike’ will never die, and from the looks of it, Rhys is auditioning for a part.
That’s what I’m talking about.
For the finale, he grips the counter with both hands and pumps his hips back and forth, undulating them slow as if he’s fucking someone.
I’d mount this man like he’s a stallion and ride the everloving daylights out of him.
Another brisk hip pump as he raps a song I don’t recognize.
I’ve always been enraptured by his rich voice.
Oblivious to the way I’m checking him out, I continue to devour him with my eyes.
Lord, have mercy.
I’ve had many fantasies of Rhys’s body. Seeing him in the flesh again blows all those lustful memories to pieces.
The mouthwatering man standing before me is breathtaking, and I’m lapping it up like a woman who hasn’t had a tall glass of water in a month.
Stalking him online made it easy for me to ignite my wet dreams.
Rhys cracks open a bottle of water, tips his head back, and guzzles some of its contents. His tattooed arms are on full display.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
Whoever said that has never cast their eyes on Rhys Hartford’s body art.
In his case, a picture is worth a billion words.
The billion-dollar man is a sight for sore eyes.
Since the last time I saw him shirtless, he’s added quite a few tattoos to his collection.
They’re all so colorful and intricate. A few of them are homage to his late father. The rest is badass.
Is it wrong to want to lick the sweat dripping down his back with my tongue?
Yes, it’s wrong.
God, wrong feels so right.
If I had a superpower, I’d want to be able to move objects with my mind.
Case in point. I’d love nothing more than to will those running shorts to drop to the floor.
I doubt men run commando—I don’t think the family jewels like to dangle in the wind—so I’d also have to take the boxer briefs into consideration in my devious plan.
My eyes travel to his firm and biteable ass.
Checking out Rhys from behind as he struts is a thing of beauty. It never happens because the gentleman in him demands I walk in front of him.
This is such a treat.
My gaze brushes down his tanned, muscular legs and defined calves before settling on that yummy ass again.
God was good to you, Rhys Hartford.
I’m so busy drooling, I jerk when he turns around.
“Jesus.” The bottle he’s holding drops to the floor, splashing water all over the place. He yanks the headphones off his head and lets them drop around his neck. “What the hell are you doing standing there?”
Drooling over you. “I just entered the kitchen. You didn’t hear me walk in… headphones and all.”
“You can’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I’m sorry.” Not sorry.
“I’m not used to having someone living in my house.”
Based on what played out between us last night, I might not be here for long.
I bite back the snarky remark.
I coax the gentler Keira to come out. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”
He picks up the bottle, throws it into the trash bin, and wipes the floor with some paper towels. After washing his hands, he’s standing in front of me again.
I get to admire him from the front––all six-feet-two inches of him.
Under the morning light, Rhys’s stunning glacier-blue eyes are translucid under his dark brows and damp brown hair. Last night’s five o’clock shadow is now a scruffy beard. The dark stubble dusting his square jaw only adds to the appeal.
I take the rest of him in with one languorous eye-sweep––his broad shoulders, the lines of muscle wrapping his arms, accentuated by the tattoos, and his six-pack.
His running shorts hang low enough for me to salivate over the carved lines of his V-muscle.
I also get a glimpse of the happy trail of brown hair disappearing under the shorts.
Heavenly Father.
“Are you checking me out?” His grin is playful, bad-boyish. Lethal.
Uh, uh-huh. “I didn’t mean to objectify you––I mean stare…”
He rewards my sass with a pantie-melting smile.
“I couldn’t help but notice the new ink. They were hiding underneath the long-sleeves of the shirt you were wearing last night.”
“I keep getting new ink whenever the mood strikes,” he says.
“They look good on you.” Amazing, really.
“Thanks.”
He stalks towards me.
I take a step back.
I can handle that much hotness at a distance. Close up? Hell, no.
“Just a little housekeeping,” he says. “If we’re going to live together, you can’t look at me like that when I’m shirtless.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve never seen a sexy man before.”
“You’re full of yourself.” I roll my eyes.
“Gotcha.”
We both laugh.
“You’re not mad at me anymore?” I pull against my earlobe.
“You want to know if I’m going to kick you out?”
I nod. “I can understand if you don’t want me here.”
“You pissed me off last night, Keira.”
I wince.
“I was fuming.”
“I’m so sorry, Rhys. I shouldn’t have said those awful things to you. You didn’t deserve it… not after the hospitality you showed me.”
“Damn right you shouldn’t have,” he says. “While we’re on the subject, I don’t bring women back to my house. Ever. So, you don’t have to worry about a parade of fucks while you’re living with me.”
The words sting, but I asked for it.
“I don’t have a merry-go-round of women coming in and out of my home. If I was seeing someone, I’d have enough respect for you—and her—to tell you.”
My heart skips a beat at those last words.
It’s like a sliver of hope.
“Okay.”
“I understand you’re all grown-up…” His eyes brush down the length of my body––pausing a little too long at my breasts––before meeting my gaze again. “And you have needs, but I stand firm. I don’t want any assholes running around in my house. I don’t need to know––”
“I was talking shit. I’d never disrespect you like that.”
“Good.” He considers me for a long beat. “You’re going to need new clothes.”
I look down at my body. “You don’t like my fashion selection?”
“You’re too pretty to wear baggy, unflattering clothes.”
I blush.
“Let me go for a swim, then we’ll have breakfast and I’ll hire a chauffeured car so I can pick up my car.”
“What happened to your car?”
“It’s parked at one of my favorite hangouts. I had a few too many to drink while I was processing last night’s blowout, so I couldn’t drive home.” Another wave of guilt washes over me. “I could use one of my other cars, but I don’t want to leave the Benz there all day.”
“My bitchy outburst was uncalled for.” I hang my head low. “I’m such an idiot. Thank you for not throwing me out on my ass.”
He places two fingers underneath my chin, forcing my gaze to his.
“I won’t renege on my word to your brother.”
“Thank you.”
“This roommate arrangement is as new for you as it is for me, Keira. We’re going to have to learn to live together.”
“I understand.”
“Don’t insult me like that ever again.”
“I won’t. Never again.”
“We’ve never had the kind of relationship where you’d know anything intimate about me. Don’t make assumptions. You want to know something? Ask.”
A flood of questions flies across my brain, but only the most urgent one burns the tip of my tongue.
Could you ever want me as much as I want you?