He’s here.
A glowing silhouette. A dark shadow.
Tall and broad as he stands by his Mustang. A dream. A beautiful nightmare.
I have to squint against the headlights so I can’t really tell the details of his face, but when the light goes off and he bangs the door shut, taking a step toward the house, I do the opposite.
I take a step back and away from the door.
And I keep doing that. I keep moving away from him. For every step that brings him closer to the house, to the door, tome, I take a step back.
Until he’s at the door and my legs touch the back of the cozy white couch, feet and feet away from him.
He watches me through the thick glass, his chest heaving up and down, his mouth slightly parted, his wolf eyes glowing.
Hungry.
And despite everything, I clench my thighs together. The thighs that are still wet with my juices and his mouth.
I clench them harder when he runs those heated eyes all over my body. From my loose hair to my rapidly breathing chest andhis hoodie that I’m wearing over my floral-printed pajama pants. His eyes stop at my belly for a second or two, the outline of which is now visible through his baggy hoodie.
Only slightly though, but still.
She flutters inside me and I cradle it under his scrutiny.
His eyes narrow when he notices it and his hands that were fisted by his sides unfurl. He grabs the knob then and turns it.
Or tries to.
But it doesn’t budge.
He looks up, something dark and possessive flashing through his gorgeous features, and I raise my trembling chin up.
There. Take that. I locked the door.
When he understands my silent answer, he says, “Open the door.”
He commands it really and his order, given in a thick rough voice, makes me press my hand on my belly and clench my wet, needy thighs again. “No.”
His cheekbones jut out in anger. “Open the fucking door.”
My heart is thudding in my chest and I shake my head. “No.”
His chest pushes out on a long breath. “If you don’t open it right the fuck now, Fae, I’m going to break it down.”
I sniffle. “Do it. It’s your friend’s house. You’re the one who’s going to have to explain why his door is broken.”
He studies my face, watches me wipe my tears, and his anger mounts. Putting both his hands on the glass door, he says gutturally, “You’re fucking crying, Fae, and I can’t get to you. I’m losing it, okay? So open this fucking door so I can make it better.”
Gah.
Why does he have to sound so anguished and so agonized over the fact that I’m crying? He’s the one who made me cry in the first place. He doesn’t get to make it better.
And I tell him that, even though my heart is twisting in my chest and I have to curl my toes to stop myself from going to the door. “You don’t get to make it better. Not after how cruel and mean you were. Go away.”
I would’ve done a lot more.
I would’ve turned around and given him my back but I feel something.
