It was after midnight when the doorbell rang. Zoe paused for an instant, quashing the flicker of hope seconds after it flared to life, and finished wrapping the towel around her hair. She hung the bath sheet over the towel rack, slipping into a robe so thin it was nearly sheer. The bell rang again as she pulled her gun from its hiding place and padded to the door, looking through the peephole.
Her jaw tightened momentarily, lowering the weapon to her side. She unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open, an eyebrow quirked as she folded her arms across her chest, her eyes meeting his. He smirked, his gaze wandering over her before lazily meeting hers again. Her heart skipped a beat and she was grateful he couldn't see her physiological response to him.
"Hello, John," she stated without bothering to hide her irritation, "Another long day of saving the world?"
"A rare day off," he responded with a cheeky grin.
"How nice. Do you need something?"
"I wanted to talk. Nice look, by the way."
She glared at him and pulled the towel off of her head, tossing it onto the kitchen island. "Can't this wait until tomorrow?"
"No," John pushed the door open, entering the apartment, "It can't."
"Goddamnit, John, this isn't funny. It's been a long couple of days and I want to catch up on my sleep."
"You didn't sleep well?"
Her eyes narrowed at his tone and she slammed the door. "No, I didn't. Work tends to make me edgy and I don't sleep well when I'm on the job."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Gee, thanks. Aren't you tired?"
"No, it's something people in my line of work tend to learn—operating on little sleep. That, and the art of sleeping whenever and wherever possible."
His shit-eating grin stirred something in her. She had never denied or attempted to conceal her attraction to him; it was that pull that caused her sleeping difficulties for the last two nights. Their easy banter, the flirtatious undertones to their interactions, that extra night they spent in Far Rockaway, drinking scotch, playing poker, toying with each other outrageously.
They had traded innuendo-laden words, the tension between them growing. He'd felt it too, she was certain. She saw the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't looking, and it made her believe the attraction wasn't one-sided.
There was more than one incident in the few days they spent together that left one or both of them flustered. But it was the look in his eyes when he walked into her room, talking about Graham Wyler, his voice dying as he watched Zoe slowly rise up into a downward facing dog (she was peeking at him through her spread legs), his mouth open and his eyes glazed over. Or their first morning there, when she appeared in the kitchen in a short, black silk chemise with half-opened eyes and tousled hair, in desperate need of a cup of coffee. It was the quickening of her heartbeat when John spoke in that low, raspy voice, wishing her good night. The way he walked around the house late a night, bare-chested and wearing jeans that rode low on his hips and fit him just right. It was sharing a dog, a bathroom and a bedroom wall—he was too close, but not close enough.
Now here he was, having pushed his way into her apartment, his eyes still on her in that short vermillion robe, and she knew. She looked at him through half-lidded eyes, for once not looking for an angle or a favor or leverage. Zoe Morgan was throwing caution to the wind, giving in to her desires and telling her selfish, greedy impulses to fuck off.
She rested her hands on his chest briefly, her hands sliding beneath the lapels of his jacket. Pushing it over his shoulders, their gazes locked as it dropped to the floor. He bracketed her face between his hands, his thumbs caressing her cheekbones. Staring up at him, she bit her lower lip coyly, moving closer to him, trailing her nails down his back.
"What do you want, Zoe?"
"Excuse me?"
"What do you want?"
"I want whatever we can have. What do you want, John?"
"I gave up wanting things a long time ago. It pulls you in deeper until you believe you can have it all. But you can't. And then life strips away what means the most."
"That's hardly a rousing endorsement."
"It wasn't meant to be. It was a reality check."
"As if I needed one."
He pulled her body flush against his, bringing his lips down to hers. Rising up on tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around his neck, whimpering at the taste of him. That first kiss had only whetted her appetite for more of him. She pulled away, gasping for breath and crawled up his body. He aided her with both hands, gripping her backside and lifting as her legs snaked around his waist.
"Bedroom?"
"Back there," she said breathlessly, tipping her head. Her lips latched onto his neck, kissing nipping and sucking as he propelled them to their destination. "Jesus, John, stop dilly-dallying."