“Why would you do this to me?”
As the words repeated in her haunting, husky,bittervoice, I saw the crease between her brows, the harsh inhale of breath as if she was struggling to breathe, and I remembered it was me who had done that to her.
Me.
I had hurt her.
Because I was so selfish and arrogant, and I fucking needed her.
I hadn’t lied. It wasn’t the plan.
But when she had walked in with all of her wit, sass, and beauty,how could I not be tempted? How could I not take the one opportunity I had to be with her before everything fell apart?
Stupidly, I’d assumed one hit of her would be enough.
But she was addictive. And playing hard to get.
Because she should be impossible to get.
I’d wanted her attention. I’d wanted her everything.
If she had all of me, and I had all of her…what could stop us?Surely something like our parents’ marriage would be nothing in comparison to what we had between us.
What we could have.
The door handle was cold as I pressed it down, holding my breath, ready for the rejection.
It slid down easily, and then when I pushed, there was no resistance.
It opened.
Unlocked.
My heartbeat picked up, sprinting in my veins.
I should close the door, shouldn’t I?That would be the right thing to do.
But she’d left it unlocked. There was no way she hadn’t considered it. She hadn’t been that drunk when she walked off. I’d watched her take the stairs and checked that my cousin had retired to the log cabin on the east side. As far away from her as possible without damning him to nomad it in the forest.
An unlocked door meant yes.
She’d told me she wanted me to wake her up with my cock.
I’d give her anything she wanted. Anything for her to forgive me.
Her body was curled towards the window, duvet half-kicked off, and an arm under the pillow where she rested her beautiful face. She was naked, her leg at an angle, letting me see a glimpse of her delicious cunt, the duvet falling just under the slope of her hip. As if she’d posed herself ready for my arrival.
Her dark, curled hair spilt across the pillow like that night when I’d brushed it with my fingers as she lay sleeping. Her expression was so soft. She was at peace, her mind not winding taught with witty comebacks or five languages flitting through.
I wondered what language she dreamed in.
What language she thought in.
I imagined it to be Hungarian. Her roots.Me.
God, I missedher.
I crawled into bed behind her—slow, silent—and pressed my palm to the dip of her waist. She didn’t stir, so I let my fingers slip lower. Past her hip. Further. Down to where she’d begged me to touch not long ago. When her legs fell open, it was the invitation I needed. She was warm, soft, already slick.
