It doesn't work. I can still taste him, still feel him, still hear him saying he wants me so much it hurts.
Just not enough to keep me.
I get out, dry off, pull on sweats. Through the thin walls, I can hear the others talking downstairs. Can't make out words, but I know they're probably discussing what's wrong with me. What happened. Whether someone should come up and check.
Robin knows. He warned me this would happen.
My phone buzzes. Vaughn:You okay?
Fine. Tired.
Need food?
No.
He doesn't push. That's the thing about pack—they know when to let you lick your wounds in private. They'll be there when I'm ready to talk, but they won't force it.
I curl up in my too-small bed, in my too-small room, and try not to think about Ash's perfect garage and his strong hands and the way he said my name like it meant something.
But not enough. Never enough.
I'm not enough to keep. I never am. The guys I date get bored, move on, find someone more interesting. My last boyfriend told me I was "too much" when he dumped me—too clingy, too needy, too eager to please. Like wanting to be with someone was a character flaw. The one before that said I was too domestic, like wanting to cook for someone was pathetic instead of loving.
And now Ash. Who wants me, but not enough to try. Not enough to figure out how to be something more than a one-night stand.
I close my eyes and let myself feel it. All of it. The wanting and the rejection and the ache that's going to be there for a while.
Tomorrow I'll be fine. Tomorrow I'll put on a smile and cook breakfast for the pack and pretend like nothing happened.
But tonight, I don't have to pretend.
Chapter 6
Ash
The garage still smells like him.
Vanilla and motor oil and want. It's everywhere—on the workbench where I had him pressed, in the air where he stood, on my hands where I touched him. I can't escape it.
I lean against the workbench—the same spot where I had him bent over twenty minutes ago—and close my eyes and try to get my shit together.
What the fuck just happened?
I had him. Right here, in my hands, begging for it. He wanted me—I could feel how much he wanted me, could smell it on him even without shifter senses, could taste it when I kissed him. His whole body was saying yes, every sound he made was yes, and all I had to do was say one thing.
Say I wanted more than just tonight. Say I'd try. Say anything other than standing there like a fucking idiot while the best thing that's happened to me in years walked out the door.
Instead I watched him go. Watched his shoulders hunch as he walked through my empty house. Watched him get on his bike and drive away without looking back.
I did that. I made him look like that.
I try to breathe through it. Try to focus on something else—the tools on the wall, the bikes in their spots, the engine I'm supposed to be rebuilding. But my body doesn't get the memo. I'm still hard, still aching, still feeling the ghost of him pressed against me.
The way he sounded when I touched him. That breathy little gasp when I palmed him through his jeans. The way he said please like it was the only word he knew. The way he pushed back against me, desperate for more, trusting me to give it to him.
And I sent him away.
Fuck it.
