I drop the blouse and my skirt in a heap, step out of my heels, and head straight for the bathroom. The light is too harsh, but I don't turn it off. I want to see. Maybe it's the only way I'll remember that there is nothing soft in him.
Maybe there's nothing soft in me, either, because I loved every brutal second of what we did.
I step into the shower, cranking the heat until my skin prickles and steams. I scrub myself raw, like that'll wash away the memory of his hands on my body or his cock inside me. Like that'll erase the fact that he fucked me without a condom, or that I loved it.
I keep going long after the water runs clear, as if maybe this time I can finally erase the last seven years of wanting him, hating him, and wanting him even more because I hate him.
When I'm done, my skin is pink and raw. My hair hangs in dripping ropes down my back, water pooling around my feet.
I turn off the water and dry off, ignoring the soreness between my legs. I slip into a robe and the first pair of panties I grab from the drawer, cinching the robe as tight as it'll go. I'm about to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head for a week, but something feels…off.
I pad down the hallway, only to freeze in the doorway of the living room.
Asher is sitting on my couch.
He's got one arm thrown over the back, his legs stretched out, and his shoes off. He's scrolling through his phone like he owns the place.
For a second, I can't even process it. An hour ago, he was gripping the steering wheel of his Mercedes like he wanted to snap it in half. Now he's here, at home in my living room, as if nothing happened.
"What the fuck?" I mutter, barely more than a whisper.
He looks up, like he's just now realizing I exist. His eyes flick over me, taking in my wet hair, robe, and bare feet. His lazy smirk infuriates me.
"Your security sucks," he says, tucking his phone away.
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
He takes advantage of my paralysis, standing and stretching, all six foot four of him creating a line of pure, predatory grace. He's removed his jacket and tie, leaving him unkempt in a way that makes him seem almost human. Almost. Except…I know better. He stopped being human a long damn time ago.
"How did you get in?" I finally manage.
He shrugs. "You should really change your lock code. It's been the same since you moved in."
The urge to stab something returns, stronger than ever. I stalk past him, ignoring the way his gaze tracks me to the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of wine. I drink half of it in a single go.
"You need to leave," I say, my voice shaking. "You don't get to—"
He cuts me off, crossing the kitchen in two long strides. He crowds me against the counter, his hands braced on either side of my body. "You wouldn't stay with me, so I'm staying with you."
"That wasn't the deal," I say, summoning every ounce of venom I have left.
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "Then I'm changing the terms, princess."
He's close enough that his body heat sinks into my skin. For a second, I think he might kiss me. Instead, he pulls back, watching me.
"I don't want you here," I snap, staring him down.
"Liar," he says, soft and smug. He grabs my wine and takes a long sip, watching me over the rim of the glass.
I hate him. I hate him so much.
He's still holding my wine, but now he's moved so that he's between me and the exit.
I push past him anyway and storm down the hallway to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I'm halfway through locking it when he shoulders it open, not even pretending to respect my space and privacy.
He leans against the frame, arms crossed, blocking the light.
"What do you want, Asher?" I say, defeated.
