They always do.
And so, when he leans down with heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips, I don’t turn away. When his hands move up to cup my face, I don’t pull away. And when his tongue pushes into my mouth, I stop myself from biting down. I kiss him back, all while my mind’s floating someplace else. No. To someone else.
Landon.
THIRTY-TWO
Christian’s hands move down my body until they land on my back. When they shift lower, grazing my ass, I stiffen and wrench my mouth away from his, stumbling back. I half-expect him to latch on and grip me closer. Instead, his arms fall away, and he just…grins at me. He grins at me like he’s finally won this stupid game I guess we’ve been playing all along, and maybe that’s all it was to him.
I never realized there were stakes until now. I didn’t realize my own self-hatred hung in the balance.
His smirk makes my stomach roll. “Worth the wait, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?”
I start to back away. “I need to go.”
“So soon?” His smile is playful and unbothered, and there’s something unsettling about it. Something almost worse than anger because it makes me feel small and stupid and obsolete. Like a pawn in a chess game or a checkmark on a to-do list. I ignore him, and when I turn for the door, he doesn’t stop me.
Hurrying back into the building, I rush down the stairs, push through the VIP area, and desperately scan the dance floor for my friends.
“Violet!” Out of nowhere, a set of thin arms wrap around me, and I’ve never been so relieved to see Brit. “Jesus. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“I’m here,” I say, hating the way my voice shakes.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Sienna and Brit link their arms through mine and half drag me out of the club.
“Are you okay?” Sienna asks in the Uber.
“Yeah, just tired,” I lie, leaning my head against the window. “Ready to go home.”
My stomach’s in knots on the ride back, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to untangle them. I try to tell myself that Ilethim kiss me. He didn’tforcehimself on me. I’ve done way worse things in the past. There’s no reason for me to be upset.
So why can’t I get the taste of his mouth, the feel of his hands, the image of that stupid smirk out of my head? Why do I feel dirty? Why do I feel dumb?
When the Uber finally drops me off, it’s nearly 2:00 a.m., and it takes everything I have left to drag myself inside the house and up to my bedroom. My dress smells like sweat, smoke, and Christian, so I yank it over my head and toss it in the corner of the room, my heels along with it. Too tired to shower, I pull on a tank top and sleep shorts and step into the bathroom, where I work to scrub the night off my face. To scrub Christian off my lips and teeth and tongue.
My hands are shaking, but I have no right to feel shaken. None at all. But tell that to the sour feeling in my stomach that won’t go away. Tell that to the regret burning a hole in my chest and the shame twisting my gut. My throat tightens as I run a brush through my wild hair, and I swallow over and over again, trying not to cry.
“How was the concert?” Landon’s voice startles me, and I whirl to find him standing in the doorway of the bedroom, dressed in sweatpants and a gray t-shirt, his feet bare and his hair mussed. I have no idea why he’s still awake—surely, not forme—and I carefully set the brush down on the counter.
“It was good,” I say, flicking off the bathroom light and stepping into the bedroom. I swallow. Blink a few times.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.
Landon’s eyes zone in on my face, then narrow as they roam it. Whatever he sees written across my features must concern him, because his shoulders tense, and he steps toward me. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low, gaze searching.
“I-nothing,” I mumble.
“Something’s wrong. I can tell. What happened? Something at the concert?”
“Nothing, Landon,” I say, brushing him off. “Why are you still awake?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” I don’t say anything else, and he frowns. “Violet, come sit down.” And then his fingers are wrapping loosely around my elbow and he’s guiding me to the edge of the bed. His touch is gentle as he eases me down, and when he sits beside me, I stare down at my hands. I can’t meet his eyes. They see too much. “Did something happen?”
I shrug my shoulders. “No. I mean, not really. I don’t know.”
His fingers brush across my back in a surprising gesture. “Tell me.”
