Wild Temptation (31 page)

I grab a hair tie from the side and pull my hair up into a ponytail as he thinks this over. Now with underwear on. Unfortunately.

“Fine. Then I’ll race you.”

“Race me? What are you, six?”

“Twenty-six,” he fires back. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t like to play sometimes.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Fine. I’ll race you. What do you get if you win?”

He buttons his pants then steps toward me slowly. “If I win, I get you…for twenty-four hours. And I get to do whatever I want with you.” His breath coats my lips with warmth. “You’ll be completely and utterly mine.”

My heart speeds up. “And if I win?”

“Then you get me,” he whispers, brushing the backs of his fingers down my cheek. “For twenty-four hours, to do whatever you want with.”

I raise my eyes from his lips to meet his challenging gaze. “You’re on.”

He smirks. He takes one step back from me and pulls his shirt over his head before he grabs his keys then takes my hand. He tugs me out of my apartment and down my stairs, barely giving me time to grab my own stuff.

“Hold on,” I say, stopping him before he gets into his car. I plug my headphones into my cell, start my running playlist on Spotify, and shove the phone into my bra. Tyler watches with amusement as I adjust it slightly. “Bras make good pockets,” I explain, hooking my headphones into place over my ears.

“Ready?” he questions, sliding into his Mercedes and starting the engine with unnecessary force.

“Ready to kick your hot, British ass? You bet I am.” I wink and start running a second before he pulls away.

“We’ll see,” he calls out the window as he drives past me.

I take a right turn at the end of the street. My feet pound against the pavement as I pick up speed, determined to win this race. Determined to have twenty-four hours of him completely at my mercy to stuff up my sleeve and whip out whenever I feel like it.

And of course, that poses the question of whether it’s twenty-four hours straight or if I can break it up into twelve two-hour segments. Because that could be even more fun.

I take a turn onto a one-way street—the very same street that means at least three minutes will be added onto Tyler’s driving time. The one that takes two minutes running off mine.

He might have wheels where I have legs, but I have the upper hand because I know Seattle. I know the streets, the blocks, and every fucking shortcut.

His block comes into sight after a few minutes, and I sigh. A sharp pain starts in my side. Damn stitch. This is why I shouldn’t go five days without running—my body turns into a lazy pile of crap, unable to cope with a ten-minute run.

I turn the corner to his apartment building and scan the parking lot.
Bingo. Sucker.

Grinning to myself, I pull my headphones from my ears, leaving them to dangle around my neck, and walk into the building. The doorman eyes me suspiciously, but I walk straight past him and head for the elevator.

I push the button to take me up to Tyler’s apartment and use the few minutes alone to catch my breath. When I get there, I realize that I can’t get in. I don’t have a key.

Fantastic. I win, but now I have to sit out here like a friggin’ lemon and wait for him to show.

Unless… I give the handle a jiggle. It opens. I raise my eyebrows. Clearly someone needs a lesson in locking his front door…

And cleaning up after himself.

I think I just walked into a teenage boy’s apartment.

There’s a mug on the island in the kitchen. Actually, there’s a mug and three plates. A shirt over the back of his sofa. A glass on the coffee table—the very smudged, dirty coffee table. And I’m pretty damn sure I can see a few socks poking out from the bathroom door.

“You need to learn to lock your door,” I say, hearing him come up behind me. “And how to look after yourself, evidently.”

“Isn’t that what women are for?”

I turn and punch him straight in the gut. “You sexist bastard.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Liv,” he laughs, rubbing his stomach. “Remind me never to get punched by you again.”

I narrow my eyes. “Tyler Stone, you are a twenty-six-year-old, fully grown man. Are you telling me you still need mommy to keep your shit in line?”

“No. I’m just lazy. I like to save my energy for other activities. None of which, by the way, I’ve heard you complain about.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Shut up.”

He laughs again, drawing me close to him. He nudges his nose against mine. “You won.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. I was. Then you punched me and I realized you’re a lot fucking stronger than you look.”

I unfold my arms and hook them around his waist. “I’m just full of adorable little surprises, aren’t I?”

He grins, but it only lasts a moment before he closes his mouth over mine. “You’re all sweaty,” he mutters.

“That happens when you run,” I say sarcastically, pulling away. I look around his apartment and sigh. “Do you have a dishwasher?”

“Do I look like I hand-wash dishes?”

Cocky bastard.

“You don’t look like you wash dishes at all.” I look at him flatly. “Okay, here’s the deal. You make breakfast and I’ll clean your apartment. I can’t eat in this mess.”

He smirks. “Calling in some of your twenty-four hours?”

“You bet I am. One hour.”

“Okay. Personally, I think it’s a waste of an hour. I mean, you could come, like, three times in sixty minutes, but whatever.”

I pick up one of his dirty socks from the floor and throw it at him. “Shut up and go and make me breakfast, bitch.”

He stops, raises an eyebrow, then roars with laughter. I grin.

Yep. I’m going to have so much fun with these twenty-four hours.

I’m pretty sure the bacon and pancakes just contradicted the effort I put in to run here. I’m even more certain that the sex after balanced it back out.

Apparently, my choice of what to do this morning was overruled. I don’t think I’m going to get my full twenty-four hours after all. The orgasms were great though…

“Do you have work today?”

I nod, tying my wet hair up in a messy bun. “At two. I’m on the long shift today. What are you doing?”

“Working. Engagement shoot.”

“Romantic.”

“They pay the bills.” He grins.

“Right. Because you need to work.” I raise my eyebrows and give him a pointed look.

“I don’t need to work, but I want to. I might have a cushy little trust fund courtesy of my parents—and the fact I sold my share in their company back to them—but I’d get bored sitting around on my ass all day. I need something to do.” He lies back on the sofa. “I used to teach photography, but then I decided to go freelance.”

“Why?” I sit on the other end of the sofa, nudging his ankles apart so I can squeeze in.

He shrugs. “I didn’t like teaching all that much.”

“How long did you do it for?”
Bad question, Liv. Bad question.

I should get up and run now before I find out any more about him. Before this conversation delves any further into his past. Before it goes too far.

“A couple months. Like I said, it wasn’t for me.”

“But you teach Dayton now, right?”

“An apprenticeship isn’t really teaching. That’s why she’s in college one day a week.”

“But you still teach her stuff.”

“Yes…”

“I don’t get it.”

He frowns. “Don’t get what?”

I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “You said you didn’t like teaching, but you teach Dayton. Like, what—did you just wake up one morning and decide that you didn’t want to teach anymore? Then do it again, except the other way around?”

“Day’s basically family. It’s different.” His tone is a little tight, and instinct tells me that it’s a sore subject.

It’s a shame that my desire to know everything is a lot stronger than my instinct.

“Well, yeah, but no. I don’t particularly enjoy pulling pints for Donny in the bar, but I’ve worked there for a while now. I wouldn’t just stop and go and do something else randomly. Of course, I don’t have the means to, but—”

“Can we drop this now?”

“I don’t think you’re telling me the truth about why you stopped teaching.” The words blurt out of me before I can stop them.

Tyler’s eyes instantly harden. “Are you ready to sit and tell me everything about your past?”

“No.”

“Then don’t expect me to tell you everything about mine. And definitely don’t expect it when you still look at me as your fuck buddy.”

My lips form an ‘o.’ Shock—that’s what I’m feeling right now. Shock that he came right out and said it… Especially after what I admitted to him last night.

Yeah, I was drunk. Yeah, I was high off an orgasm. That doesn’t make what I said any less true.

That doesn’t mean my addiction isn’t grabbing hold of him, obsessing over him, desiring him.

It doesn’t mean I’m not.

“You know that isn’t true,” I say in a small voice.

“No, I don’t. What you said to me last night doesn’t tell me how you look at me. I’m a fucking addict, Liv. I’ve had sex with a whole bunch of bloody people I don’t see as anything more than a quick shag.”

A lump forms in my throat. I swallow once, twice, three times, but it doesn’t go away. It lingers, heavy, full of emotion.

“And me? Is that how you see me?”

“Don’t turn this shit round on me. You know exactly how I feel about you.”

I stand and lift my hand to run it through my hair before dropping it lamely when I remember that it’s up. “No. No, you know what, Ty? I don’t have a fucking clue because you’ve never actually told me. So until
you’re
ready to tell
me
, don’t sit there and tell me how I see you. Don’t sit there and fucking berate me for not telling you how I feel when you haven’t done it yourself.”

I turn and walk to the door, grabbing my phone and keys from the kitchen counter as I do.

“Who’s the one who fights going on a date, Liv? It isn’t me!”

I yank his door open and look at him over my shoulder. “Dates are what you do with someone you’re interested in getting to know. And until you know why I fight your dates, don’t sit there all righteous and fucking judge me.”

His door slams loudly behind me, echoing in the empty hallway. I step into the elevator, my hands shaking, my heart pounding, my lungs constricting tightly.

I clench my fists and press my knuckles into my eyes.
Breathe. One to ten. Breathe.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

The elevator doors open.

Ten.

I glance around, stupidly expecting him to be here although he has no reason to be. Why would he be? Sex. That’s what we agreed.

Except I really never should have agreed. It’s because of that split-second decision that I now can’t breathe. It’s why I have tears burning the back of my mind and my fingers are itching to press the buttons on the elevator.

Why every part of my being wants to travel back up there and run into him and beg him to glance over all my crap, just for now, and stay.

Why my stomach is twisting with the thought of not touching his skin, not hearing his voice, not having anything to do with him other than official wedding duties.

It’s why my addiction is taking hold, clamping down on me. Trying to force me to do what I know is wrong.

I 0stand in the middle of the lobby for what seems to be the longest few minutes of my life. I ignore everyone around me, ignore the doorman asking me if I’m okay.

Then I look up, I turn, and I walk out of the door.