Gable shakes his head. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
As he walks away, my words land, my cruelty slices through me, but the fire in my bones hasn’t subsided.
I’m angry.
At him, at myself, at the world for bringing us together in such a fucked-up way.
And I’m not done hurting us.
“No, let’s talk,” I say, following him. Cold air and snow sweep in from the open patio door, but we ignore it. “Do you usually break up with girls while your cum is still running down their thighs?” He tenses but keeps walking, going to the fridge to snatch out a beer. “What? No response? No sarcastic remark?”
He turns and holds the tip of the bottle against the edge of the kitchen island, slamming his palm down so the cap pops off. He approaches me, and I freeze in place. He takes a long swig of the beer and swallows. “Argue with yourself, Gibson. I’m not fucking interested.”
“Not interested,” I repeat, and as he walks away, he gives me an affirmative thumbs up. “So you don’t think about me?” He stops in place, keeping his back to me. My heart rate quickens, and I close my hands intofists. “You don’t think about that kiss? Or sleeping beside me? You don’t think about touching me?”
Seconds pass, his breathing slow. “I don’t.”
“Liar.” The word is like a bullet, and he tenses. “You’re a lot of things, Gable, but I never thought you were a fucking coward.”
He faces me, and there’s such frustration in his expression that I hold my breath.
“A coward?” His voice is low, threatening. He throws the bottle against the wall, the glass smashing, and I jump. Beer slides down the paint, and my attention snaps back to him as he advances on me. “You think I’m a coward? Fine.” My back bumps into the kitchen island, and we’re inches apart when he gently grips my jaw. “You want the truth, Gibson?”
I swallow, lifting my chin. “Yes.”
“Everything we did in that car? That was the tip of the fucking iceberg. Yes, I think about you. I dream about you. I fucking fantasize” —he takes hold of my throat, and I pull in a shaky breath— “about fucking you until you’ll only ever want me. I think about your moans, what you taste like, how you’d feel sitting on my face and riding my mouth until you’re coming and pouring down my throat.” My clit tingles, a pleasant warmth throbbing through my pussy. He squeezes my throat, and a breathy moan escapes me. “I think about that kiss. About kissing you again.” I search his eyes, my legs weakening, my anger overtaken by desperate, selfish need. “I think about taking care of you. Pleasing you. I think about giving you everything, but do you want to know the reality?” His eyes seem to darken further. “I can’t offer you anything but a life where we’re running.”
He's right. Painfully right. This can’t be anything—just like Asher and I couldn’t be anything. We come fromdifferent worlds, live different lives, probably want different things.
But if the last six months have taught me anything, it’s that the future is fragile. What I wanted before Asher is nothing like what I want now. I’m constantly changing, adjusting,surviving.
I search his face. “It doesn’t matter who I am, Gable. It doesn’t matter who I am to you, or who I was to Asher, or what you can or can’t offer me. We can only ever know what we want right now. And what I want is you.”
His anger has given way to torture, and he slips his hand to the back of my neck, gripping gently. As always, we’re going through the same pain. The same confusion. The same bitter turmoil that never seems to end.
And as always, that pain weaves its way between us, pulling us closer—tying us together.
His sigh is mingled with a tortured groan. “We shouldn’t do this.”
No, we shouldn’t. This can never work. We’re a disaster waiting to happen, but I can’t look away, can’t rationalize my need for him or think about the consequences when he’s this close.
“Don’t pull away from me,” I plead, running my hands up his chest. I’m aching for him again already, and press a soft kiss to his lips. “Don’t leave me alone in this.”
He pulls me closer, clinging to me almost as we lock eyes. He searches my face, and he’s so stripped back, so raw, that I hate myself for doing this to him. I hate myself for falling for him, for begging him to stay with me even if it’s what we both want.
“You’ve fucking ruined me, Ella,” he whispers, and my heart breaks before his lips crash to mine.
It’s raw, unbridled, desperate. We kiss like it’s our first and last, and he unbuttons my jeans, tugging them down roughly. I help him until they’re kicked off, and he turns me, kicking my feet apart before burying himself inside me again.
The feeling of fullness is too perfect. I feel complete, whole, at peace when I’m one with him. We’re connected with more than just our bodies—it’s primal, raw, so beautiful that tears thicken my throat.
“Oh—” I whisper it, unable to speak once he grips my throat and pulls my back to his chest as he fucks me.
He buries his face in my shoulder, biting my skin as he fucks me relentlessly. His other arm circles my waist, holding me in place as he slams into me, never stopping, rutting into me with quick, brutal accuracy.
“You’re perfect,” he says in my ear. “So fucking perfect, Ella.”
I barely register us moving until he lifts me into his arms and carries me to the couch. He places me down and kneels between my thighs, taking both my wrists in one of his hands, pinning them over my head. With his other hand, he pushes up my T-shirt and pulls down my bra, releasing my breasts. As he slides his hard, wet dick inside me again, he bites and kisses my nipples.
