"It’s fine," I say, opening and closing my fist to assess the damage, noting the bruising and swelling that have already appeared.
Her eyes are red and puffy.
If that wasn’t a dead giveaway that she’d been crying tonight, the black marks under her eyes from her mascara definitely are. I hate knowing I played a part in hurting her.
Watching as she slides one shoe off at a time, my eyes involuntarily trail up her bronzed, toned legs, stopping at the hem of her red dress above her knee before she clears her throat, snapping her fingers, forcing my attention back to her face.
"My eyes are up here, Wingrove." She squints her puffy eyes at me before turning her back toward me, heading toward the kitchen.
I understand that she’s mad at me, but a cranky Cassandra is cute as hell. I can’t help but chuckle to myself.
Following behind her, I get myself a glass of water, hoping she’s about to do the same, but she heads straight for the freezer instead.
"Ah-huh!" she says, sounding victorious as she turns to face me, holding an ice pack in the air like it’s some sort of trophy. “Come here,” she commands, propping herself onto the granite countertop, spreading her legs slightly, with just enough room for me to stand in between them.
We’re both drunk, but she’s drunker, so even though I’ll be in between her legs, I won’t be taking advantage of the position we’re in.
I need a fully coherent Cassandra Herring.
I need her to be completely sober when she invites me between her legs.
When she begs me to fuck her.
It’s inevitable.
I’m just waiting for her to be ready.
"Give me your hand." I take a deep, shaky breath as I step closer to her, bridging the gap between us, standing between her thighs before giving her my right hand.
Slowly, she places it on her bare thigh. I don’t miss the way she shudders at my touch.
The way goosebumps cover her skin.
The way my thumb grazes her thigh involuntarily, causing me to flinch in pain, thanks to one simple movement.
Noticing my physical discomfort, she gently places the ice pack on top of my knuckle, and I close my eyes at the sweet, sweet relief the ice cold brings.
"Does that feel okay?" she whispers as I open my eyes to search hers. Redness slowly fading, replaced by speckles of gold.
I’ve never been close enough to Cassandra Herring to study her in this way.
Subtle freckles cover her nose.
She has dimples on the sides of her face, but not on her cheeks; they’re only visible if her hair is up or tucked over her shoulders, like it is now.
I would kill to be able to read her mind. To be able to hear what she’s thinking right now.
"I had a crush on you in high school," she blurts out, as if knowing exactly what I was thinking in this very moment.
"Trust me when I tell you that I wouldloveto hear all about this, but I think we both need to get some sleep. It’s been a big night." It nearly kills me to not hear her tell me I was who she wanted, but I’m not an idiot.
I want her to remember telling me.
Not while drunk out of her mind and emotional about seeing her shitty ex.
"I don’t feel so good," she quickly changes the subject, her face losing any trace of color, and just like that, the conversation has gone from something I desperately wanted to hear, to somethingno one wants to hear from someone who consumed their bodyweight in alcohol.
Frantically searching the kitchen for a bucket, I find one under the sink, but either I don’t make it in time, or she has terrible aim, because before I know it, my shirt and chinos are covered in vomit.
