The Dirty Series 1(168)

I don’t understand this game we’re playing.

Has he already moved on?

Was one time enough with me?

The doubt takes root and begins to flourish even as the messages keep coming, even while we have daylong conversations listing off the smallest details of our lives.

Though the contractors finish the repairs in the basement, it takes another week and a half to have it painted. There’s a problem with the roof, and Sherrie thinks it’s becoming a deal breaker for interested parties. If I could just do some minor repairs in that area as well…

It frustrates me, but not as much as this bizarrely deep line of questioning from Christian. The fact that he wants to know so much about me is something I can’t figure out. I like that he wants to know these things. I like that he sees me as a person and not just a fuck toy. But why the sudden change in gears? Why via text?

After three weeks, my house hasn’t sold, but I’m done.

I don’t understand what he’s doing, and when I’ve tried to guide the conversation there, he avoids it.

It’s almost midnight on a Wednesday when I finally tell him that I can’t do it anymore.

I send the text with shaking fingers and a pounding heart.

I want the heat between us.

I want the sex.

I want the domination.

I don’t want endless text messages.

I can’t keep having this conversation

Immediately, a bubble pops up on my screen. He’s writing back.

My stomach turns over.

I can’t either. Open the front door

What the fuck?

I stand up from the couch, throwing the blanket that rested over my legs over the arm of the chair, and pad across the silent apartment to the front door. Carolyn went to bed early, exhausted from putting in too many hours today at her boutique. She needs to hire some more help, if you ask me. She can afford it. There’s no reason to burn herself out.

I’m so tightly wound that my throat feels restricted.

I unlock the door and pull it open.

Christian stands in the hall, his hair damp from walking from his car to our building in the rain.

“Come in.” I incline my head, ushering him into the entryway. Then I close and lock the door behind him. “Let’s go to my room. Carolyn is sleeping.”

He nods, and follows me through the apartment and down the hallway to my bedroom. I shut the door softly behind us, then round on him.

“What the hell?” I say, my voice sounding more tired than pissed off. “What happened? One day we’re having sex that literally blows my mind, and the next you won’t even talk about it?”

He takes a deep breath. “I had to figure some things out.”

“Figure what out? What is it that we’re even doing here?”

“I wanted to know more about you.”

“And you couldn’t take me on a fucking date and ask me then?”

“Listen.” He steps forward and takes my hand in his. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

The tension stretches thin between us and my stomach plummets into my shoes. What is he about to admit to me? That he’s married? That he’s found a girlfriend?

“I want to be with you.”

I let out a laugh in spite of myself. “What?”

“I want to be with you, Quinn.”

“I wanted to be with you for the past three weeks. What about then?” I’m half giddy, half hurt.

“I don’t ever date women like you.”

“I gather that.”

“I never take women out on more than three dates.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s oddly specific. And bizarre.”

“I know it is.”

“So you didn’t want to…waste the dates with me? That’s why we’ve been sending messages by carrier pigeon?”

“That’s what happened.”

All of a sudden, it hits me: the look in his eyes, the way he’s standing, shoulders curved toward me, the nervousness on his face. He’s admitting to me the ridiculous fucking reason why we haven’t been spending every night together for the past three weeks.

He’s vulnerable.

It sounds absurd, it sounds idiotic, but when I realize how he’s putting his real reputation as a confident playboy on the line to explain himself to me, my heart bursts.

He would never show this side of himself to someone he didn’t trust.

I knew it. I knew it was more than sex.

Suddenly I’m grinning like an idiot, and all the weirdness of the past three weeks is forgiven.

“Are you done?” I say, unable to remove the smile from my face.

“Done with what?” he starts to smile, but doesn’t seem to want to risk giving himself away unless I’m really done being angry.

“Done with your stupid rules?”