Chapter 16
Ryan
Brooke worea strange expression coming out of the bathroom. Her face was bunched up questioningly, and she constantly pulled at the small necklace she wore. She walked out, unsteady on her feet, her hands shooting out and away from her, as if she had trouble keeping her balance.
Did I just mess up her walking straight? She looked a bit sex-stoned, and walkingside to side. That shit right there made my chest swell. I watched her—ready to jump up and catch her if she fell.
She was quiet as she walked toward the bed. She had put my brother’s shirt back on, but it did nothing to hide her. It fit just as sexy as if she wore nothing. She pointed to my dresser, with a deep crease between her eyes, “Can I borrow a shirt? One that fits better? I, um…I should go clean my apartment, do laundry, and clean my apartment, you know?”
“I’ll help,” I said, pushing my body to sit up. My muscles felt like rubber, my hands still needing to slide over her skin. My mouth couldn’t get enough of her taste.
Brooke looked up from the drawer, one of my tee-shirts clutched in her hands, and her eyes wide. She didn’t say a word, just stared at me as I stood, letting the sheets fall back toward the bed.
She mumbled something and looked away, quickly.
I smiled at the burst of red across her cheeks. It felt good to have a woman in my bed like that, one that blushed after we’d just had sex, one who can’t walk straight, because it felt so good.
Naked, I walked toward the dresser, stopping to stand next to her. Brooke’s stare snapped away from me, eyes wide and stunned, boring her focus into the ceiling. I choked back a laugh, and slid in front of her, pushing between her and the open drawer.
She gripped my shirt tighter, her knuckles whitening as her blush darkened and traveled to the tips of her ears. “You really don’t have to—” she mumbled, and then stopped, looking too shy to continue the sentence.
“I know, Brooke,” I said, pulling out some clothes for myself to wear. “Thing is, I want to,” I said, cocking my head directly in front of hers, so she’d see I wasn’t just saying bullshit to her. It was understandable if she felt like I was just going to let her walk out of here without any questions answered—it’s what Captain Anderson did to her. But I wasn’t anything like that white shirt pussy bouncer.
Brooke looked up at me with the saddest expression I had ever seen, and my chest ached. Her lips moved to form words, yet no sounds came out.
“You okay?” I asked, sliding my thumb over her trembling chin.
“Yes,” she replied with a thick voice.
“Should we talk about what just happened?” I asked, trailing my thumb over her jaw and gently cup my fingers over her neck.
“Nope, no way. I’m still processing.”
“Me too,” I smiled, replaying her moans and the way she moved underneath me. I swore my dick was ready for another round. That feeling hasn’t happened to me in years. “But, I’m sensing you’re freaking out and at some point you’re going to need to tell me exactly what you’re thinking.” Leaning down, I brushed a soft kiss across her lips and felt the pulse in her neck thud wildly against the palm of my hand.
“I will. I promise,” she said, clearing her throat and stepping back. “Just give me some time to figure out…things.”
“Okay,” I said with a smile. “Take all the time you need.”
She had an hour to put her head back on straight--that’s exactly how long I was giving her.
We dressed in silence—walked past the mess in the kitchen without a word to one another—even drove quietly to her place in separate cars. I watched every move she made, every hand gesture, every sound, anything to try and figure out what her thoughts were in the solitude of her mind. She held her head high, chin up, but then she’d wilt and her shoulders would crumple in. She’d bite at the sides of her nails and rub constantly at the back of her neck. Her fists would ball up, open, to only close again fast. Whatever war she was fighting with herself, she seemed to be losing.
She walked ahead of me, eyes not meeting mine, and when we got to her apartment, her behavior only got worse.
For a while she was silent—storming through the house like a whirlwind—sweeping up every item that she deemed had been touched by the situation and slammed it into the garbage. Hours of silence turned into growls and curses mumbled under her breath.
“Brooke,” I said, grabbing her by the shoulders as she threw a full garbage bag clear across the room. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she snapped.
“So, you usually act like an out-of-control bitch when you’re home?” I asked, jokingly.
“Did you just call me a bitch?” she stammered, spinning around on me.
“You just threw a bag of garbage, a freaking heavy one, right at me. I wouldn’t call that being sweet and endearing.”
“What? I did?” she said, her eyes scanning the mess of the garbage that fell out of the bag. “Shit,” she said, collapsing down onto the couch and hanging her head in her hands.
