Page 58 of Ravaged
The front door opens.
“Are you fucking someone in there?”
The question blurts from my mouth without my permission, and any minute now, mortification will catch up with my anger. But at the moment, anger is driving the bus, becausehonestly. He just had his tongue inmymouth and his hand onmytitty not two goddamndaysago.
He doesn’t reply, just props an arm against the doorjamb and arches a dark-blond, pierced eyebrow. That’s when I really take notice of him. All of him. The plain gray, thin hoodie stretched over his wide shoulders and chest. The faded black sweatpants hanging to his slim hips for dear life. The bare feet.
Not exactly an outfit intended for seduction.
Though to be fair, Jordan Ransom could wear a unicorn onesie with footsies, and women would drop at his feet, legs spread.
I sigh. “Let me try that again. Am I disturbing anything, or can I come in?”
Instead of answering, he steps aside and sweeps an arm in front of him, inviting me inside. Exhaling, I accept the invitation.
Unlike the other times I enter his palatial home, I don’t take a moment to peruse the breathtaking, two-story foyer with its crystal chandelier and small fireplace and mantel. He claims every bit of my attention.
I wasn’t expecting this.
Of course, I’d wondered if there would be any awkwardness in our first meeting after The Kiss. But I hadn’t predicted this damn near raw awareness. As if the very thin shields I’d erected after our night together had been eradicated with one wild, passionate mating of mouths. His sexuality vibrates against my skin, and I rub my arms over my jacket, which is no protection against that vitality.
Or the sight of that ass in black sweatpants.
“I hope you don’t mind me just dropping by. Again,” I add, with no small amount of chagrin.
“I never do.”
“Why?”
He glances over his shoulder, that eyebrow arched once more. And I don’t blame him. I’m on a roll, it seems. As if the stress and self-directed anger and guilt from my evening with Daniel have stripped me of the filter on my mouth. And truth? That filter was flimsy to begin with.
“Why?” he repeats, leading me past the grand workmanship of a freestanding staircase, the formal living room, the great room, and the dining room to his study.
He moves through the room to an open pair of french doors and out to a deck with no less glorious views of soaring mountains, even though it’s dark outside. Leaping, crackling flames in a firepit provide warmth and an orange glow while additional small lamps along the deck floor throw soft illumination around the perimeter. It’s an intimate space, and the early-November night air doesn’t reach us here.
“Miriam.” He sinks into the padded deck chair, his gaze on me. “What do you meanwhy?”
Already regretting letting that one word loose, I follow suit and lower into the chair next to his, holding my hands out to the flames. “I mean, why do you never mind me dropping by? You are a reasonably hot thirty-year-old basketball player who’s popular with the ladies.”
He snorts. “Reasonably hot?”
“If you expect me to stroke your ego, Ransom, you got the wrong one.” I’ll forgo the obvious joke about stroking something else, because yeah—been there; done that. “So where was I? Right. Reasonably hot. Popular. Ladies. You’re famous, got money, a pretty good job. So why are you always home and available when I drop by here? And a better question that has been plaguing me—”
“Plaguing you?” he interrupts again.
“Hating on my vocabulary is really beneath you.” Once more, I avoid looking at him because I’ve been beneath him. Only two days ago. This conversation thing is tricky as fuck. “Why haven’t you used BURNED’s services? Your boys have. Repeatedly. But you? Not once. What’s up with that?”
“Maybe because I can break up with my own women without any help,” he drawls.
I finally look over at him, studying those elegant yet stark facial bones and the lush mouth. Strands of dark-blond hair escape the bun at the top of his head, and my fingers itch to push them out of his face. Trace the strong line of his jaw that’s half-hidden by thick scruff. I lift my gaze and am immediately ensnared by electric-blue eyes. And I can’t look away. Don’t want to look away.
“So you do have women?”
Why am I talking?
“Is this why you came here?” he throws at me. “To question me about what women I’m fucking and not letting you break up with for me?”
“It’s notnotwhy I came over,” I shoot back, then groan and scrub my hands over my face. “I’m sorry,” I say into my hands, my voice muffled. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. And if you haven’t guessed, I don’t know why I’m here.” I spread my fingers and peek at him like he’s a horror show I’m afraid to look at. Or maybe I’m the horror show. That’s a bit more accurate. “That seems to be our MO lately.”
