“I want some water.” She stroked a hand down his back. “You thirsty?”

“Not if it means moving for the next five or ten years.”

She gave his ass a light pinch. “I’m thirsty. So you have to move.”

“Okay.” But he nuzzled her hair a moment longer. “I’ll get it.”

“That’s all right.” She gave him a little shove and wiggled out from under him. “I’ll get it.”

She stopped by the closet on the way out, and he had a glimpse of something thin and silky billowing out over that gorgeous body before she strolled out the door.

“Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe this is just some wish-fulfillment fantasy, and I’m really in my own bed with Moe snoring on the floor.”

Or maybe not.

He sat up, scrubbed his hands over his face. And unfortunately, began to think. He’d come over because he’d been churned up, pissed off, and generally confused by the scene they’d had in his office that morning.

And now he was in her bed, naked, and they’d just had incredible sex. When she’d been drunk. Well, maybe not drunk, but impaired.

He should’ve walked away. He should’ve found the moral fortitude to walk away from a naked, willing woman when that naked, willing woman’s inhibitions had been erased by alcohol.

And what was he, a saint?

When she walked back in wearing nothing but a short red robe, he scowled at her.

“I’m a human being. I’m a man.”

“Yes. I think we’ve established that beyond doubt.” She sat on the side of the bed, offered him the glass she’d brought in.

“You were naked.” He took the glass, gulped down water. “You were all over me.”

She cocked her head. “And your point is?”

“If you regret this—”

“Why should I?” She took the glass back, swallowed the stingy sip he’d left behind. “I got you where I wanted you. I’d been drinking, Flynn, but I knew what I was doing.”

“Okay, then. Okay. It’s just that, after what you said this morning . . .”

“That I’m in love with you?” She set the glass on the coaster she kept on her nightstand. “I am in love with you.”

Emotions ran through him, all too hot and fast to decipher. But layered over all of them was sheer, sweaty fear. “Malory.” When she only continued to study him with a quiet patience, the fear began to trickle into his throat. “Listen, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t.” She gave his hand a comforting little squeeze. “Actually, you’ve got a lot more to worry about than I do.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do. I love you, which means, naturally, I want you to love me back. I don’t always get what I want, but I usually find a way to get it. Almost always, in fact. So to my way of thinking, you’ll end up in love with me. Since the idea of that scares you, you’ve got more to worry about than I do.”