“Then you’d better be real fucking quiet.”
His hand finds my hip, and soon he’s pinning my wrist to the wall beside my head. We’re breathing hard, glaring at each other in the dim hallway, and the hatred between us feels like a living thing.
“I’m not doing this here,” I whisper.
“Then stop looking at me like you want to kill me and fuck me at the same time.”
“I do want to kill you.”
“And the other part?”
I don’t answer, but my silence says everything.
He releases my wrist and steps back, and the loss of contact leaves me cold. “Show me the rest of the house.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“So I’ve been told.” He nods toward a door at the end of the hall. “What’s that room?”
“Guest room.”
His expression darkens as he waits for me to make a move.
I should say no. I should march back downstairs, say goodbye to my parents, drive home, and pretend this night never happened. But Patterson is already walking toward the door, and my feet follow before my brain can override them.
The room doesn’t look like it did when I lived here. The walls are now sage instead of pale pink. A queen bed with a gray comforter sits in the middle of the room instead of my twin bunk beds with the butterfly sheets. Traces of me remain though.
My skating trophies line the shelf by the window, gold and silver figures frozen mid-spin. Photos from competitions cover one wall, and it’s set up like a shrine to the career that ended too soon. A stuffed bear I won at Coney Island sits on the dresser, nearly bare from years of being loved.
Patterson moves through the room, examining each piece of my history like he’s cataloging it for later. He stops in front of the trophy shelf, and I watch him take in memories of who I used to be.
“State champion,” he reads from one of the plaques. “Three years running.”
“Ancient history.”
“You must’ve been good.”
“I was good enough.”
He turns to face me, and the distance between us disappears. “You were going to the Olympics.”
“But I didn’t.” I meet his stare without flinching. “Things change, Patterson. Sometimes, we think we want certain things in life, but when we get close to having them, it’s obvious it’s the wrong path.”
“Yeah.” He takes another step, and now he’s close enough that I can see the individual flecks of green in his blue eyes. “Like you almost marrying Jamie?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my eyes fluttering closed.
I should back away. The door is wide open. This is the stupidest possible place to do anything, and yet my body refuses. I’m the prey he’s been stalking for years, and I want to surrender.
His mouth crashes into mine, and there’s nothing soft about it. This kiss is a war, teeth and tongue. It’s anger that burns hot. I grab his sweater and yank him closer, needing more friction, more contact, more of him, hoping it will stop this craving.
He pushes me backward until my spine hits the wall beside my old trophies, and I hear one of them wobble on the shelf. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and I hope they do because I want evidence that this is real.
“I fucking hate what you do to me.” I breathe against his mouth.
“Good.” He bites my bottom lip, and I gasp. “Hate me harder.”
His thigh presses between mine, and I grind against it shamelessly, chasing the friction. The absurdity of the situation should kill the mood, but instead, it amplifies everything. I’m making out with Patterson Cross in my old bedroom while my parents clean up dinner downstairs, and I’ve never been more turned on in my life.
