Page 40 of Fourth Wheel
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur my assent.
“I’ll leave some clothes in here for you while you shower. Lock your door when you turn in for the night.”
Thatgets my attention. I’ve spent plenty of time with Fielding over the last few years. He’s not harmless or innocent, but he’s no threat to me.
I cock one eyebrow and open my mouth to tell Dempsey as much, but he stops me with a frustrated sigh.
“Can you just do what you’re told for once?” he snaps.
He’s teetering on the edge, and the thinness of his request proves it. He doesn’t need to be pushed; he needs to be pulled in and wrapped in an embrace. I refuse to be the cause of any more stress for him tonight.
I nod instead of pushing back, then run my hand down the barely there stubble of his jawline. He stills under my touch, then closes his eyes and inhales what I’m sure is the deepest breath he’s taken all day.
“Goodnight, Dempsey,” I whisper, shifting past him to the bathroom down the hall.
Chapter 19
Maddie
Showeringintheguestbathroom is like being at the spa. It’s just as big as Fielding’s, and it’s filled with all sorts of expensive soaps, shampoos, and moisturizers. A selection of robes and clean towels was waiting for me, and if I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn the tile floor was heated under my feet.
I lingered in the shower, enjoying the rainfall effect and the hot steam that washed away all traces of this horrible night. Then I took the time to blow dry my hair and work it into a loose braid. I used a few unidentified products in bottles so pretty they doubled as décor and even found a lotion that smelled like sparkling champagne and strawberries—my favorite.
I hadn’t bothered asking which room was his when we came up here.
But as I sneak out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a fluffy robe, I can’t help but notice the light on in the room next to mine.
I pause outside his door, staring at the thin line of light shining into the hall. He mentioned he’d be up to check on Fielding. Will he even let himself sleep tonight?
I walk into the lavender room and take it in for the second time. It’s somehow even more beautiful than when he showed it to me.
There’s a pile of things on the bed: perfectly folded sweatpants and an Archway Prep LAX shirt that I recognize from my brother’s wardrobe. He also left me a cold bottle of water and a baggie of ice for my ankle, neither of which I thought to ask for but genuinely appreciate.
I slip into his clothes, pulling my braid out of the shirt collar as the fabric settles against my skin. Both items are comically big, but they feel right. This is the closest I’ve been to him since those seven minutes of heaven in the alley last week.
I lift the shirt to cover my nose and mouth, inhaling the clean scent of fabric softener with a distinctly Dempsey undertone. He’s got this sweet scent that gets more complex the longer I inhale. Fresh tobacco? A hint of caramel? I’ve never thought about how he smelled before. But now that I’ve gotten a whiff, I’m craving a hit directly from the source.
I crack open the water bottle and suck down half of it, but it does nothing to sate me. I stare at the inviting bed. Then I look back at the door.
I pad into the hallway and pull my door closed behind me, unsure what I’m doing, but confident it’s the right move. I creep down the hall until I reach the next door. When I try the handle, I half expect it to be locked.
The handle turns, and my desire lights up with the promise of what’s next. I don’t have a plan. I’m not working an angle. I haven’t thought through any of this—I just want to be where he is.
His room is larger than mine, all grays and charcoals with a built-in bookshelf for a headboard against one wall. There’s an enormous flat screen on the opposite side of the room, along with an executive-style desk in one corner.
I peruse his personal space, but there’s no sign of the man himself. It’s not until I hear a sigh out the French doors that I know where I’ll find him.
He doesn’t startle when I come to stand before him. He’s slouched in a cushioned chair, his legs spread wide and his head resting back. He sits just a little straighter and drags his cerulean-blue eyes up and down my body, taking me in as I stand before him in his clothes.
His focus shifts to my face, and anger colors his expression before he speaks.
“You shouldn’t be standing on that ankle.”
“Agreed.”
My voice trembles, but I swallow down my doubt and steel my spine, then take three steps forward until my knees are pressing into the cushion of his chair. When he doesn’t immediately swat me away, I make my move.
I climb into his lap, then spread my legs wide, straddling him and lining us up in the process. His body tenses below me as he gives me the most threatening glare. We stare at each other, unblinking, silently warring over what’s right and what’s real. But then his hands slide up and grip my ass, one hand digging into each cheek as he pulls me closer and pins me in place.
