Page 17 of Bayside Heat
She wrenched free and went into the closet. He’d been in her bedroom so many times, he could navigate around the king-size bed and matching oak dresser and nightstand with his eyes closed. He had carried her to bed when she was too ill with the flu to walk or too drunk to manage it and dozens of times when she’d fallen asleep in front of the television as they watched movies. He knew that when she was sick she hated using flat sheets, preferring the softness of her comforter against her skin, and that she needed the closet light left on in order to fall asleep, because she had never quite gotten over her fear of the dark. Who would know to do those things for her in Boston?
Fuck, I hate this.
His gaze swept over the new fancy clothes and silk lingerie littering her bed, tags still in place. The empty shopping bags lay forgotten on the floor. He diverted his eyes from the lingerie, but not before imagining her wearing the sexy black lace panties he’d seen by her pillow, her bare breasts brushing against his chest as she lay beneath him.
“Drake? I think I might need you,” she called from the closet.
Not in the way I want you to.
Biting back his desires, he went into the closet and found her standing on a stool, teetering precariously on her tiptoes while she reached for a stack of boxes. He wanted to run his hands up her long legs, to feel goose bumps chase his fingers and her flesh grow warm as he brought his lips to her skin, taking his first taste of her.
Jesus. I’m a fucking prick. She’s days away from making her dreams come true, and all I can think about is making her mine.
“It’s okay,” she said, stretching farther to reach the topmost box. “I think I got—”
She swatted at the boxes, sending them flying through the air as she lost her balance and fell into his arms. Dozens of pictures, cards, and other memorabilia sailed down around them. She was breathing hard, her soft curves pressed against him. Her beautiful hazel eyes blinked up at him, an intoxicating mix of amusement and heat. In the space of a second, he saw dozens of images of her, laughing, crying, eating, lying in the sun. What felt like a lifetime of loving her culminated into one split second.
“Drake,” she said breathlessly, passion swimming in her eyes.
He knew he should hold back, knew he didn’t have the right to mess up her plans, but he was powerless to resist the desires stacking up inside him. He lowered his face toward hers, and a shrill alarm sounded, jolting him back to reality.
Her eyes widened with shock and something bigger. Panic?
“Fuck,” he ground out as he set her on her feet, the annoying alarm still sounding from her phone as she pulled it from her pocket.
She was shaking a little. Her cheeks were beet red, and her eyes were trained on her phone, like she didn’t want to, or couldn’t, look at him. Had he misread her? Seen only what he wanted to see?
“I must have accidentally set the alarm for midnight instead of noon. It’s so late…”
“I’m sorry, Serena. I shouldn’t have—”
“You didn’t—” Her eyes flicked uneasily up to his. “I appreciate you helping me pack and bringing all that stuff.”
Damn it. He’d made her uncomfortable. “Serena…” He wanted to tell her how he felt, why he’d almost kissed her, but that would only make her more uneasy. Instead, he motioned to the mess at their feet, trying to find safe, stable ground, and said, “Want help cleaning up?”
She shook her head. “It’s late. I’m fine.”
He wasn’t an idiot, and she was anything but fine, but he knew she needed him gone.
He hiked his thumb over his shoulder, silently cursing himself, and said, “I’ll take off. See you tomorrow at the office?”
“Yeah. Um, I have some stuff to take care of for the music store in the morning, remember? But I’ll be back in the afternoon. We have interviews scheduled.”
Back to fucking business.
Was it really better that way?
Chapter Four
RICK’S AND DRAKE’S voices escalated behind Drake’s office door Thursday afternoon. Serena cringed. She had been training Harper for the past few hours, and the guys had been in there nearly as long. For the umpteenth time, Dean’s calm, stern voice rang out with, “Cut the shit,” before their conversation became muffled once again.
