Diary of a Bad Boy

by Quinn, Meghan

  How on earth does he know where I live?

  And why is he here?

  “Sutton,” he whispers, just as another scratch hits the door. “Open up.”

  “Roark?” I ask through the door, causing him to rear. He sways back and forth then lifts his hand as a welcome.

  He’s completely wasted.

  Oh, Roark. I sigh and unlock my door, opening it just wide enough to fit my body in the entrance. Despite his obvious state of inebriation, my body can’t help but react to him. I take him in—black jeans, black shoes, black long-sleeved shirt, no jacket, and his hair perfectly styled on the top of his head. He looks absolutely delicious with his shirt clinging to his muscles and his jeans riding low on his hips. Dark and broody with a hint of sensitivity under that searing gaze, he’s all trouble, and I want to be a part of it.

  He takes a step forward and puts a hand against the doorjamb of my apartment, his eyes scanning my bare legs and braless chest. “Hey,” he says softly. “Did I wake you?”

  I chuckle. “Yeah. It’s three in the morning.”

  “Is it?” he asks, and I get a whiff of the whiskey on his breath.

  I nod and fold my arms across my chest while leaning against the wall. “It is and you have me wondering how you know where I live.”

  He smiles wickedly at me, and the mischief in his expression tempts and teases me. “I have my ways.” Hands in his pockets, he rocks on his heels and nods toward my apartment. “Can I come in?”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “I know.”

  “This isn’t a booty call.”

  His brow frowns. “You’d never be a booty call to me, Sutton.”

  God, it melts my heart when he says things like that. I should tell him to go home, but my body reacts differently as I step aside and let him in. When he starts to pass me, he reaches out and takes my hand in his, clutching tightly as he walks through the threshold of my apartment. It’s nothing compared to his. It’s two rooms—living space and bathroom—but it’s perfect for me. All I need.

  I flip the nightstand light on, providing some light to the space as Roark looks around. He doesn’t say anything, just observes. What’s he thinking? Is he even thinking about anything? He’s a pretty lucid drunk, even when he’s wobbly in the legs.

  Finally, he turns toward me and asks, “Can I use your bathroom and toothbrush?”

  “Bathroom, yes, toothbrush, no. I have a spare under the sink though. Toothpaste is in the medicine cabinet.”

  “Thanks, lass.” He glances around and asks, “Uh, is there a bathroom?”

  I chuckle and point behind him. “The only door on the right over there.”

  Nodding, he releases my hand and takes off. Unsure what to do, I get back in bed. He came all the way to Brooklyn when most likely he was drinking close to his apartment. If he’s not here for a booty call, why is he here? And what caused him to get so drunk?

  I glance at my shirt, the way my nipples are puckered against the fabric, something that happens whenever he’s around. My body begs for him, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Picking my phone back up, I finish reading the texts he sent, hoping for a clue why he’s here.

  Roark: Have I told you I want to fuck you? I think I have.

  I re-read the text above the last, reminding myself of how he wants me to sit on his lap. Well, if this isn’t a booty call, I don’t know what it is. From the texts he sent, it seems like there’s only one thing on his mind.

  I turn back to the texts.

  Roark: I don’t want to be at this nightclub anymore. I want to see you. Are you sleeping or are you ignoring me?

  Roark: Why is Brooklyn so far away?

  Roark: I need to hire a car service so I can transport you safely.

  That makes my heart swell. Even drunk, he can be thoughtful. Thoughtful but confusing. He doesn’t want to start anything with me, and yet, he wants to protect me, he’s constantly texting, and he’s here in the dark of night, apparently not for a booty call.

  I don’t think I could be more confused.

  The bathroom door opens, and Roark steps out into my tiny studio apartment wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs. The light from the bathroom lights up every contour of his chest and his chiseled arms. Reaching back, he flips the light off and then struts toward me. Swallowing hard, my skin prickling with need, I watch him close the distance between us. When he reaches me, I hold my breath, wondering where this is going.

  He nods at the mattress. “Scoot over, lass.” He must see uncertainty in my eyes because he says, “We’re just sleeping, now scoot over.”

  Okay with that, I turn the light off on my nightstand then move over on the bed. He slips in right behind me. Unsure of what to do, I sit up and awkwardly watch him get comfortable. Once he’s settled, lying flat, one hand propped behind his head, his gaze lulls to the side. “Are ya going to lie down, Sutton?”

  “Do you want me to lie down?”

  “I sure as hell don’t want you hovering over me while I sleep.” He tugs on my hand. “Come here.”

  He turns on his side and guides me down onto the bed so we’re facing each other, both our hands tucked under a pillow. Lazily, he smiles at me and pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Thanks for answering your door.”

  “Why are you here, Roark?”

  He shrugs and swipes his thumb across my cheek, our bodies only a foot away from touching. “I didn’t want to go home, and none of the girls at the nightclub interested me.”

  That makes me pull away. “Were you with any of them?” That would make me sick, if he had girls hanging all over him then comes to my place. I might be desperate for his touch, but I’m not that desperate. I have my standards, and being second fiddle to other women isn’t one of them.

  “How could I be?” he asks. “Not when you’re the only goddamn thing I think about.”

  Smiling, I lean back into his touch, melting at his answer. “You think about me, but you won’t be with me.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t deserve you, Sutton. You’re the type of girl you take home to meet your parents, and I’m not the guy who takes women home.”

  And just like that, he shatters the ounce of hope brewing inside me. He could be that guy. I can see it in him, in the little acts of thoughtfulness he shows, the sincerity in his eyes whenever he sees me, but for some reason, he refuses to accept it.

  “Then why are you here?” I ask quietly, unable to look him in the eyes.

  “Because I needed you.” His hand moves down my body to my hip where it rests. “Rough day, Sutton. I needed you.”

  The rhythm of my heart skips a beat. “Do you . . . do you want to talk about it?”

  He shakes his head and yawns. “No, I just want you in my arms.” He nods behind me. “Turn the other way.”

  “Are you going to spoon me?” I ask, teasing him.

  “Yeah, I’m going to spoon you so fucking hard, now turn over.” His answer sets off a wave of butterflies in my stomach.

  Unable to hide my smile, I flip to my other side only to be pulled into Roark’s warm chest by his impressively strong arm. He situates our pillows and buries his head in my hair, his arm wrapped around my waist, our bodies pressed closely together.

  I can’t breathe, being this close to him, having him holding me protectively. It feels like too much.

  “Fuck, you smell good,” he says, nuzzling my hair, then down my neck. A wave of goosebumps spreads over my skin. “Lavender,” he mumbles. His hand that’s wrapped around my waist slips to my thigh where he maneuvers it under my shirt. I still as his hand glides back up my body, past my hip bone, to my stomach where it settles.

  Breath held captive in my lungs, I’m still unsure what to do as his hand spans across my stomach and his nose runs against my ear. “Are you okay if I touch your skin?”

  A dull throb pulses between my legs, my nipples pucker tightly against my shirt, and I have this intense urge to rub my legs together, to som
ehow give into the heavy feeling settling in my core.

  “Yes,” I breathe out heavily.

  Thankfully he’s too tired to notice the desperation in my voice or the need thrumming through my body. His thumb is so close to my breast, just a few more inches and he’d be touching it. I’m tempted to scoot down, and I think about it for a second before I stop myself. I don’t want an accidental boob graze, not from Roark. I want his intention to be to want to touch me, to feel every last inch of me.

  “Thank you, Sutton,” he whispers.

  “For what?”

  His lips graze my ear, setting every nerve in my body on fire, pulsing, throbbing. So needy. I shift against him, moving my ass against his crotch, and he groans and nibbles on my ear.

  I need him to do that again. I reach behind me and tangle my fingers through his hair, encouraging him. His breath filters through my ear before his teeth tug on my lobe.

  Yes.

  I move my rear against his crotch again, and this time I’m welcomed by his hard erection.

  His hand grips tighter on my stomach, his thumb stroking my skin. I lightly moan as he moves his mouth down my neck. He doesn’t kiss, he doesn’t nibble, but it’s almost like he’s feeling the contour of my neck with his lips.

  It causes a feather-like sensation to roll down my arms and across my stomach. He’s barely doing anything—just a graze of his lips and a swipe of his thumb—and I’m already wet, ready, desperate for him to give me more.

  Unable to control my movements anymore, I turn in his grasp so my back is on the mattress. His hand rotates over my stomach, his thumb almost directly between my breasts.

  “Sutton, turn back around.”

  Feeling bold, I say, “Touch me, Roark. I want to feel you all over my body.”

  “Christ,” he groans, the tip of his thumb grazing my breast. “Sutton, stop moving.”

  Chest heaving now, the juncture between my thighs needy for this touch, I spread my legs, dropping one open and place my hand on top of his.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  Instead of answering, I glide his hand down my stomach and just when I start to move past my belly button he stops. I groan in frustration. “Roark, please.”

  “No,” he whispers in my ear. “Not now, not like this.” His tongue peeks out and licks across my ear. I take the opportunity to slip his hand past the hem of my boy shorts.

  He sucks in a sharp breath, his fingers dancing dangerously where I want them. “Touch me,” I whisper. “I’m so wet, Roark.”

  “Fuck,” he sighs, his breath picking up now. “Fuck, Sutton.”

  His fingers glide along my pubic bone, teasing me. “Just one finger, that’s all I need. I’m about to combust, Roark. Just give me something.”

  I can hear him swallow hard before he speaks. “I can’t. I’m drunk, Sutton.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I do,” he says, removing his hand and putting it back on my stomach.

  I groan out of pure frustration and flip to my side, turning away from him. Why does he have to make this so complicated? It’s just sex. It’s not like I’m asking him to make a baby with me. I just want some pleasure. No, that’s not all I want. I want Roark to be the one pleasuring me. Making me feel desired, turned on . . . sexy. I know I’m not, but boy do I need that right now. His touch. His caress. His body over mine.

  “Don’t be salty, lass,” he says close to my ear, his thumb drawing light circles on my stomach.

  I don’t say anything. Instead, I bury one hand under my head and shut my eyes. The throbbing in my body grows more persistent, reminding me there will be no relief for me anytime soon.

  Turned down twice by this man. Will he ever say yes? Will he ever give in? I’m beginning to think he’s not going to. If he would hop on the opportunity to bed me, tonight would be the night, but even drunk, he has the stupid sense to leave me alone.

  “Sutton, you know I want to.”

  “Your words mean nothing to me right now, Roark.”

  “Ooo,” he coos. “Sharp declaration.”

  “Don’t be playful. I’m mad at you.”

  “Ah, come on,” he says. It’s a whisper, and it feels like a caress. But not the sort of caress I need. “Just enjoy the cuddle, lass. This doesn’t happen . . . ever. Consider that a victory tonight.” His lips press a sweet kiss against my cheek as he snuggles in closer, his erection fitting against my ass, his chest covering my back like a weighted blanket, and the secure hold of his arm wrapped around my waist offers me a sense of security I don’t think I’ve ever had. And by the sounds of it, he probably hasn’t either.

  Even though I’m completely turned on to the point of pain, I consider what he is offering me. It might not be sex, but in some ways, it’s greater. It’s a piece of intimacy he doesn’t share with others. For that, I need to be grateful. The other part of this will come—I’ll make sure of it—because if there is something I’ve realized tonight it’s that Roark is starting to make his way into my heart. Slowly, but he’s carving a path.

  * * *

  “Ah, fookin’ A,” I hear next to me on a painful moan, scaring the crap out of me. I jump at least a few inches in the air and turn around to find Roark, holding his crotch, eyes shut in pain.

  Last night comes flashing back to me: Roark’s text, his late-night visit—or rather early morning. The touching. The non-touching. The blue-balls I suffered last night.

  His confessions.

  The way he held me.

  His sweet kisses along my ear and neck.

  “Ya got me in the nads, Sutton.” He takes a deep breath. “That’s one way to take care of morning wood.”

  My sympathy finally kicks in as I press my hand to his arm. “I’m so sorry. I must have forgotten you were here. Did my knee connect with you in the wrong way?”

  “Ya could say that.” Letting out a long breath of air, his green eyes pop open and his breathing seems to steady. “Damn, woman. If you wanted to wake me up, just give me a shake.”

  I chuckle. “I’m sorry. I truly didn’t mean to knee your junk.”

  “Are ya sure you weren’t getting back at me for disturbing your sleep last night?”

  “No, you’re the resentful one, remember?” I sit up in bed. Immediately his eyes fall to my chest where I know he’s taking in my hard nipples. It’s a given. I’m almost used to it by now.

  Once he gets a good eyeful, his eyes travel back up my body. “You smell good, like flowers.”

  I wasn’t expecting that. I press my hand against the sheets and say, “I spray lavender oil on my bed, helps me sleep.”

  “It smells like you, gives me a goddamn hard-on.”

  “I feel like everything does that to you.”

  He reaches out and pulls me back down on the bed, his hand snaking around my waist. “Not everything, lass.” He strokes a strand of hair out of my face before sighing and turning around, leaving me breathless.

  He tosses the sheets to the side and struts toward the bathroom, his back muscles flexing with every step he takes. I’m so focused on his backside, I’m almost caught staring when he stops and spins around to face me.

  Scratching the side of his head, he looks around and asks, “Is there a second floor to this apartment?”

  “There is a second floor, but it doesn’t belong to me. What you see, is what you get. This is it.”

  Eyes wide, he asks, “This is your entire apartment? My bedroom is bigger than this.” He takes in the kitchen. “You don’t even have a real fridge. That’s something I had in college. What about an oven?”

  Amused, I sit up in bed again. “I have a toaster oven that works perfectly fine.”

  “Where’s your kitchen sink?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  He scoffs. “And how much do you pay?”

  “Enough to make you question my sanity.” I gesture to the side. “But look at the pretty fireplace and the light that streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows
in the front and the cute little alcove. It’s perfect.”

  “You don’t have a sofa.”

  “Why do I need a sofa when I have a bed?” I ask, wiggling my eyebrows.

  “You need a sofa for fucking.”

  “What’s a bed for then?”

  “So much more,” he says with a smile before heading into the bathroom.

  Sighing like a love-struck teen, I flop back onto bed and drape my arm over my eyes. God, what I wouldn’t give right now to have Roark come out of the bathroom completely naked and push me up against the mattress, only to spread my thighs and finally give me what I’ve been wanting for weeks now.

  To prevent getting hot from the thought and having a repeat of last night, I concentrate on the old ceiling and the intricate carvings that have been painted over too many times to count. It’s one of the reasons I loved this apartment so much—so much history packed within four small walls. And even if the fireplace doesn’t work, and I don’t have a true working kitchen, and there is a draft that seeps from the old windows, I love it here.

  The bathroom door opens and I turn my head to the side to see Roark dressed in his pants but that’s it, and they’re not even zipped.

  I keep my tongue from flopping out the side of my mouth as he approaches, his hair a mess, a sleepy look in his eyes, and a lazy smile on his face. It’s scary how, with every step he takes, my heartbeat races faster, my nerves skyrocket, and my desire for him grows.

  “You’re one of those people.”

  “Huh?” I ask, hoping I wasn’t staring too much.

  He sits down next to me on the bed and presses his hand on my thigh, looking down at me. “This is going to sound really cheesy—”

  “I like cheesy.” I smile up at him.

  “I figured, but you wake up looking gorgeous.” His hand glides up my thigh, and my breath hitches when he reaches my hip bone. “You know I wanted to go so much further with you last night, right?”

  “I could feel that you did.” I glance at his crotch and he chuckles.