"I didn't ask for your help!"
Neither of us moved. Joel's face went blank, and I knew I'd gone too far, but I couldn't figure out how to come back from it.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay."
He turned toward the hallway. I grabbed his arm with my good hand.
"Don't walk away from me."
"You just told me you don't want my help. What do you want me to do, Red?"
"I don't know." I shoved him, one-handed, not hard enough to move him but hard enough to make a point. "I'm not one of your programs, Joel. You can't just choreograph me into being okay."
His jaw tightened. "Don't push me."
"Or what?" I shoved him again.
His hand closed around my wrist, the grip tight enough to bruise. "I said don't push me."
"Make me stop."
We stared at each other. His grip on my wrist hadn't loosened.
"You want me to stop being gentle?" His voice had dropped, gone rough. "You want me to stop treating you like you're made of glass?"
"Yes."
"You sure about that?"
I leaned in, close enough that his breath was warm on my face. "I've been sure for four days. You're the one who keeps pulling back."
He went still. I thought he was going to let go, step away, shut down completely.
Then he kissed me. His hand stayed locked around my wrist, the other fisting in my hair to pull my head back, and when I opened my mouth, he took it like he was trying to prove something.
I grabbed the front of the jersey with my good hand and pulled him closer. He let me, his grip on my wrist tightening, his other hand twisting in my hair until my scalp stung.
"This what you wanted?" he said against my mouth.
"Yes."
He spun me around and walked me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. The impact knocked the breath out of me, and before I could recover, his hand was between my legs, pressing up hard, and his mouth was on my neck, biting down until I gasped.
"You wanted this." His voice was low and dangerous. "You pushed until you got it. Now take it."
His other hand slid down my chest, my stomach, and shoved past the waistband of my boxers. When his fingers wrapped around me, already half-hard and aching, a groan tore out of my throat. He stroked once, twice, thumb dragging over the head, and my hips jerked forward.
"Four days," he said, tightening his grip. "Four days of watching you walk around in your underwear, sleeping next to you every night, and you think I didn't want this?"
"Then why—"
"Because you almost died." The words came out rough, almost angry. "Because I wasn't there, and you almost died and I couldn't—"
He cut himself off and kissed me instead, brutal and deep, his tongue in my mouth while his hand worked me until I was fully hard and leaking against his palm.
"I'm not fragile," I managed.
"Shut up." He twisted his wrist on the upstroke and I choked on a moan. "Stop talking."
