He gave her a heated look, which made her blush. He was right. She’d ridden him like a bronco and had practically yelled giddyup while she was at it. “Okay, one time.”
“And after?”
Damn. Yeah. After, she’d curled into him and closed her eyes, trying to soak up his warm, hard body and the way it held hers, marveling at how he had a way of making her feel safe and secure. “But staying the night, that’s what girlfriends do.”
“Yeah. And?”
“I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Really?” He shifted in closer now, so that they were sharing air. Like they had when they’d had their mouths fused to each other, sharing deep, sensual, erotic kisses . . . “Because only a few hours ago it felt a hell of a lot like you were my girlfriend. Like when you—”
On a choked laugh, she reached up and covered his mouth with her hand. “Don’t.” But it was too late. Memories washed over her, his worshiping every inch of her body, her turning the tables and doing the same to him, knowing she might never be able to get enough of him . . .
“Charlotte.” His voice was terrifyingly gentle as he removed her hand from his mouth and held on to it. “Maybe we should talk.”
“It’s three thirty in the morning.”
He just looked at her.
She squirmed. “Talking makes things real. And real things . . . well, they end, Mateo.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Stop running.”
“I’m not trying to.” She tossed up her hands. “Look, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a handful.”
“That’s okay, I’ve got two hands.”
She smiled, but her eyes also filled. “I told you from the very beginning,” she managed around a rough throat. “I don’t date. And I don’t sleep in other people’s beds either. I . . .” She broke off to breathe. “I can’t sleep in other people’s bed. And you know why.”
His eyes softened as he reached for her, sudden understanding in every line of his body now.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really am, but—”
“It’s okay. It’s okay, Charlotte,” he murmured, slipping a hand in hers. “We could always try your bed.”
She stared down at their entwined fingers, running the pad of her thumb over his calloused palm. She shivered, remembering some of the things his hands had done to her, all incredibly, amazingly perfect. “I don’t sleep well if someone else is in my bed.”
“Then lucky for you I don’t mind sleeping on the floor. Did it for most of my premed college years actually. Couldn’t afford my own room, so I couch-surfed. It was better than a park bench.” He reached back out the door and picked up something he’d apparently left on the porch before knocking.
A rolled-up sleeping bag. “This thing has seen a lot,” he said. “Your floor will be luxurious accommodations, trust me.”
She stared at the sleeping bag and realized . . . he’d known her problem all along. Known and understood. And had come up with a work-around. As if maybe she truly, honestly did mean something to him.
“My floor is hardwood,” she said inanely.
His eyes twinkled, but he didn’t smile. “Doesn’t bother me, as long as it doesn’t bother you.” With his free hand, he tipped her face up to his. “Does it bother you, Charlotte? That I want to sleep near you? That I want to be with you?”
Staring at him for a long beat, she slowly shook her head.
He smiled, stepped all the way inside, and closed the door at his back before taking her hand and just looking at her.