Shacking Up(60)

Her embarrassment over kissing me back tells me this. I also think she's far more liable to make rash, poorly thought-out decisions when she's been drinking-hence her kissing me back in the first place. Which I don't regret in the slightest. What I do regret, maybe just a little, is not staking some kind of claim prior to leaving her in my condo. Although, at the time, I had only known her for two days. That might've been a little weird and preemptive.

All it would've taken was a few words. If Ms. Blackwood hadn't interrupted our good-bye I would've followed through on that kiss and maybe we wouldn't be having this argument.

I take a deep breath and go with honesty. "Ruby Scott, I know better than to think I can tell you what to do, but the very last thing I want is for someone as dickish as Wentworth to get his hands on you, especially if it's solely for the purpose of spite."

I get breathing for several seconds. Deep breathing. The kind I'm not opposed to. The kind I'd like to hear as a result of my abilities to make her feel extraordinary. In a very sexual way.

"I'm going to hang up now, Bane, and you're not going to call me back tonight, because I don't think you want to see how far you can push before you reach my limit."

I don't get another word out before the dial tone happens. As much as I want to call her back right away, I know it's a bad idea. A very bad idea. So I keep it together and leave things alone. It's late. I should go to bed. But I can't, because all I can think about now is that fuck Wentworth and how one man can put things in perspective and screw everything up for me at the same time.

* * *

It's been forty-eight hours. I tried to call Ruby yesterday. The only response I received were pictures of Tiny and Francesca, like they're ransom notes in image form. Tiny was on the back of her hand. Francesca was hiding under my sheets. My messed-up sheets. A reminder that she has my pets and she has access to all my things, including my bed.



       
         
       
        

I may not have reacted well to the Wentworth situation. I called Armstrong the next day and ripped him a new asshole. Except he seemed to think my reaction was hilarious and uncalled for. Then he went on to tell me I had nothing to worry about because Ruby was a frigid bitch as far as he could tell, and he doubted she opened her legs or her mouth for anyone. I ripped him an additional asshole for that comment.

I also know that's untrue. She opened her mouth for me. And I'm hoping her legs will, eventually, follow.

A full fifty-seven hours later she finally picks up when I called her via video chat. I had apology flowers delivered this morning hoping it would defrost her a little. "Hey," I say by way of greeting.

She glares at me through the two-dimensional screen. If I was in my condo with her, there are so many ways I could wipe that glare off her face. But I'm an ocean away, so all I have are words.

"I'm sorry."

The side of her mouth twitches, just a little. It's barely a tic. She's eating pasta. She dips her fork into the bowl and lifts it, twirling the noodles slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on her food. Ruby opens her mouth. Her luscious-looking mouth. The one I've had my tongue in. The one I'd like to have wrapped around my . . . the fork slides between her lips.

A noise startles her. And then I realize it's me. Groaning.

The fork slides out from between her lips. She's eating pasta primavera. The sauce is oil and garlic based. Her breath would be horrible right now, but her lips are glistening and I have no control over my head or where it goes-or how hard the one in my pants gets.

She has the upper hand. She knows it. She raises a brow and chews slowly. It takes forever before she speaks. "You're sorry?"

"Yes." It comes out low and raspy. Goddamn it. I need to get a handle on myself. Not a real handle, well, at least not while I'm talking to her . . . afterward maybe. Why is she so sexy? Why do I like that she refuses to let me get away with the shit I pulled the other night? Why am I looking so forward to her wrath?

"What exactly are you sorry for? Being an asshole?"

"The flowers came?" I sort of expected them to smooth things over for me a little better than they have.

"They did. They're beautiful. But I'd still like to know what exactly you're sorry enough for that you'd send flowers."

That's a great question. It's also legitimate. The card didn't exactly allow for an extended inscription, so I went with Sorry for being an asshole. I need to word my explanation in a way that isn't going to get me into more trouble. "For questioning your character." When all I get is more staring, I continue. "I'm well aware that you're an intelligent woman who is more than capable of making sound decisions. My concern wasn't your ability to make decisions, but Wentworth's propensity for taking advantage when he sees opportunity."