Why?
Because I’m too broken? Because he saw me standing there flushed, bare, ready for the taking, and decided I wasn’t enough?
Every time I close my eyes, I see the hunger written all over his handsome face... and then his back as he leaves. He dressed up, smoothed every sharp edge until he looked untouchable, and walked out the door.
And now, instead of thinking about his hands on me, I see them touching someone else. Some faceless girl atScarlett.
It’s scary how clearly I can picture that woman. Tight dress, fuck-me heels, long hair. She sits in his lap, his fingers bruising her thighs, her lips sucking his neck...
She’s nothing like me. She knows how to flirt. How to seduce. How to function in society without lashing out, because she hasn’t spent years locked in a dollhouse.
My mind’s eye shows me Koby kissing her, fucking her, loving her. I press my hands to my real eyes like that will smother these images, like it might stop me unraveling over this guy. Even if he’s perfection personified. Even if he acts like he’d kill for me one second and kiss me the next.
God, I’m fucking nauseous.
Koby’s not mine. I’m not entitled to his time. He’s never even kissed me. He pulled away the one time I tried. But it makes no sense because he sleeps beside me when I ask. He lets me rage, keeps me calm, helps me heal. He calls me hellcat, and sometimes his desire bleeds into his features, clear as day.
That has to mean something... right?
Unless I read it all wrong.
The ringing silence is broken by the lock disengaging and the apartment door whooshing open. Koby steps in. His footsteps kick up my pulse, waking the butterflies.
What’s he doing back so early?
He looks tired, but it takes nothing away from his devastating handsomeness. Sin wrapped in muscles, ink, and black clothes.
“Hey,” I call out, trying to sound casual when my throat’s tight. “Is everything okay?”
He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over the closest chair. “Yeah, fine. How are you doing?”
“Fine.” Very far fromfine. “You hungry? I made pasta.”
The crease between his brows flattens when he takes me in. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re not my cook?” He grips the backrest with both hands, the muscles in his arms shifting as he leans forward.
“And how many times do I have to tell you I’m bored? Besides, you like my cooking, don’t you?”
“I do.” He scans the living room and throws his head back when he spots the neatly folded laundry on a side table. “Did you leave any t-shirts for me, or have you stolen them all?”
“I left you a few. Now...” I grin, gesturing toward the kitchen. “How about a smile, athank youand a nice meal with me?”
That damned crooked smirk curls his full lips, sending a heatwave through my body.
“Fine. Thank you, hellcat.”
I love it when he calls me that. I love it when he looks at me, smiles at me, and talks to me. I want every ounce of his attention. I want to be his beginning, middle, and end.
He’s too fucking perfect. From the way his shoulders fill out his shirt to the way his eyes narrow and his thumb brushes his chin when he’s lost in thought. Those big hands... that scar on his lip... the way he handles me when I lose my shit.
Calming down before I explode is getting easier, but Koby still gets caught in the crossfire too often.
It’s humiliating.
He never gets angry, though. Not even annoyed. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t manhandle me... he just takes it, smiling along.
I think my madness turns him on. His gaze always darkens when I snap, his jaw ticks and fists clench like he’s holding himself back from fucking me raw.
I sincerely wish he wouldn’t hold back.
