Page 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JORGE

When I wake, I stretch and feel a slight ache in nearly all my muscles—a reminder that last night was real, even if it did feel like a dream.

A really good fucking dream.

Blinking to adjust to the sun shining into the room, I notice my clothes are folded neatly on the coffee table. The man folded my boxer briefs. Who does that? I lift my head and find myself staring directly at a cloudy white splatter staining his otherwise pristine couch. Oh, fuck! Did I actually come on his couch?

Grabbing my shirt, I hastily pull it over my head and scramble to put on my pants, my fingers fumbling in a hurry. I’m used to mornings like this—leaving quickly before the awkward goodbyes or ‘how are you this morning’ conversations. Or in this case, a ‘sorry I came on your couch’ conversation. It’s easiest for one-night stands—no need for explanations of regrets.

Hopping across the room as I make my way to the door, I pull on my shoe. I undo the deadbolt and wrap my hand around the knob. “Sneaking out?” Rory’s deep voice startles me, and I freeze. My hand still on the partially turned knob, I glance over my shoulder to find him standing in the hallway with a calm, calculated expression.

This isn’t in my playbook. Unsure what to say, I scramble, trying to think up an excuse to leave— any excuse—but my mind is completely blank. Dumbfounded, I glance between him and the door and stammer, “Um… I… I just thought….”

He stares at me with his piercing blue eyes as he closes the distance between us. His fingers slide along my jaw, tilting my head slightly to meet his gaze. “You thought wrong,” he whispers, pressing his lips to mine. It’s soft and tender—yet enough to make my heart race. “I’d like to see you again tonight. Here. Same time.”

Surprised by his request, I hesitate for a moment then blurt, “I have work until two. I can’t?—”

“You’ll be off at eleven,” he insists with confidence. “I’ll make sure of it.”

I want to argue. Tell him he doesn’t have the right to change my schedule. That it’s presumptuous as fuck to assume I want to see him again. But I can’t. The way he speaks—his commanding confidence—I’m pretty sure he could ask me to do anything. Not that he’s asking.

He cups my jaw and places another kiss against my lips. Pulling back, his lips dust against my ear as he whispers, “Then it’s settled. I’ll see you tonight.”

After stepping into the elevator, I swipe open my phone to find several missed texts from Layla.

LAYLA

Where did you run off to?

Hello?

Is this a Benson & Stabler or Reid & Morgan matter?

Seriously Jorge. It’s 2am. Are you okay?

Not serial killed or SVU’ed. I’m alive.

Thank God! Where the hell have you been?

Rory’s

Shut the fuck up!

No, don’t. Tell me!

I laugh to myself as I dial her number to give her every sordid detail. It rings once before she answers, “You slut! Tell me everything.”

Fuck, I love her.

“First, I know he isn’t actually an Evans… but fuck, from the waist down, you’d swear they’re all related.”

She cackles into the phone so loudly that it reverberates off the metal walls of the elevator as I reach the ground floor.

* * *

I spent most of the morning on the phone with Layla. After giving her a play-by-play commentary that rivals ESPN, we talked about me actually seeing him again. It’s been a while— a long while— since I’ve been on more than one date with the same man, especially two nights in a row. Although, technically, last night was more of a booty call than a date.

Our conversation and heading to his place are the only things I can think about during my shortened shift. I glance at the clock— 10:42 p.m.— and pull out my phone .

Is this a good idea?

Do I really want to be FWB or start a situationship with him?

What if it goes south? And then I still have to see him all the time?

LAYLA

And what if it doesn’t?

Or…what if it’s more than that for him?

You mean, like he actually wants to date me?

OMG. Is that so horrible?

Horrible? No. Terrifying? Abso-fucking-lutely.

By the time I reach Rory’s, I’m an antsy ball of anxiety and nerves. I knock on his door and feel like I’m about to burst as I wait for him to answer. He opens the door and greets me with a tender smile—a sharp contrast to his otherwise gruff demeanor. “Right on time.” He reaches out, and his fingers brush along my arm as he ushers me into the apartment. “Good boy.”

Those two little words have me ready to fall to my knees for him again.

And I’m fucked.