I’M ELBOWS DEEP IN dirty dishwater, my phone blasting Journey’s greatest hits, when I feel a set of hands skimming the sides of my hips. My heart plummets and a cool breath slicks my lungs.

Turning, I find Sutter.

And it’s great timing, actually, because I was just thinking about him, silently comparing the way I feel about him to the way I’ve always felt about Nick.

Nick gives me butterflies and giddiness. Nick feels like home, warmth, and good times.

But Sutter … Sutter makes me feel like a woman, fueling a physical desire so deep inside me it scares me. Sometimes, if I think about him for too long, I have to stop and find my breath.

“You scared me,” I state the obvious because I have no idea what to say right now, and then I turn down the volume on my music. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Only hours ago, I was in head-to-toe loaned Prada and Cartier for Gram’s ceremony and now I’m in sweats, a loose ponytail, and I smell like caked-on grease and Dawn dish soap as I stand before a strapping Adonis who’s looking like he’s two seconds from making me his next meal.

“What is th—” I try to ask a question, but he silences it with a kiss, which I suppose is an answer of sorts.

His mouth is soft and his hand cups my face as his tongue slides between my lips. I’m pinned against the counter, a sinkful of dirty dishes behind me, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here, with Sutter Alcott’s perfect body, brave soul, and complicated heart pressed up against me.

But Maritza’s words echo in my head, the way they have been all day, growing louder and louder, impossible to ignore.

I slip my soapy hands around the back of his neck, relishing in his kiss, his masculine scent, his heat mixing with mine, and then I gently push him away.

“I need to ask you something,” I say.

His green-gold eyes hold mine.

“You don’t like me, right?” I ask. I know in a court of law, a question like that would be worthy of an objection, but it’s a lot easier than straight up asking, “Do you like me?”

Sutter doesn’t answer, but I need a firm yes or no from him. If he says no, if he elaborates about how he always “screws shit up” or that he “doesn’t like me like that,” then I’ll know with absolute certainty that Maritza was spot on about me wanting Sutter.

And only wanting him because I can’t have him.

Impatience eats at me. “We’re just having fun, right? This doesn’t mean anything to you?”

Again, it’s a lot easier than asking, “Are we having fun? Does this mean something to you?”

“Where’s this coming from?” he asks, his honey stare searching mine.

My fingertips begin to prune and wrinkle and steal what’s left of the sexiness out of this moment. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. With everything. I don’t want either of us getting hurt.”

His eyes squint. “Why are you feeding me my own lines?”

“So that’s a yes?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m having fun with you.”

I rise on my toes, grateful for some semblance of an answer so I can finally stop wondering, and I press my mouth against his again.

There’s nothing wrong with having fun.

Nothing at all.

“We’d be the worst couple, right?” I ask between kisses, opting to avoid the question, “What kind of couple do you think we’d make?”

His hands slide down my sides, cupping my ass, and then he lifts me to the counter, beside the sink of dirty dishwater. A moment later, his fingertips slip beneath the hem of my shirt, brushing against my stomach.

Our eyes lock as he peels my shirt over my head and throws it to the side. Sutter’s mouth presses hard against the bend of my neck, and for a moment, I almost expect him to bite me.

“The worst ...” I continue. “Can you even imagine?”

Pressing his hips into me, I release an anticipatory sigh when I sense the hard outline of his cock.

He’s hard. For me.

He wants me.

And I want him.

Oh, god, do I want him …

“Even if we did … you know ...” I start to say as his fingers tug at a bra strap. He lets it fall down my bare shoulder, kissing my hot flesh and leaving pricks of goosebumps everywhere he touches. “It would complicate things … being roommates and all.”

I tilt my head back as he unfastens my bra and toys with my nipples. First his fingers and then his tongue, swirling, taking his time.

“Melrose?” The way he says my name, low and gravelly in his throat, an implication of animalistic need, makes my sex pulse with a delicious ache.

“Yeah?”

“Stop talking.” With that, he scoops me into his arms, and I wrap my legs around him, holding on tight as he carries me to his bed caveman style.