Page 2 of Brutal Titan

Pushing off the door, I make my way to him. I should leave but the fact that my presence is pissing him off gives me more pleasure than it should. “I’ve been in this room a million times. Why is it different now?”

“You know why,” he mumbles into his hands before glancing up.

Torment him. Twist his insides. That is what I want to do to him just as he’s done to me, but my body isn’t in agreement as I move between his legs, spreading them apart. He leans back, his hands quickly pressing against the bed at his sides, though he avoids looking to me. Climbing up, I straddle him, my knees sinking into the mattress before I rest on his lap. When he cusses under his breath, I wonder if maybe this is the best way to torture him.

Draping my arms over his shoulders, my forehead drops to his as I rock against him. He can say all day long that he doesn’t want this, but his hard cock says otherwise. I whisper against his lips, “I don’t understand. Can you explain it to me?”

“Stop it, Victoria. You’re drunk.”

“I wasn’t drunk when you had me pinned against the wall in my bedroom this morning.” Clinging to his shoulders, my eyes snap shut remembering not only the kiss I’d longed for since … well, for as long as I can remember, but also the moment he’d pushed me away. His painful revelation that it was just a mistake as he bailed from the room left me even more twisted up inside, something I hadn’t thought was possible when it came to him. The boy who’s held my heart since we were kids, before I even knew what any of it meant. “Tell me why.”

His fingers entwine in my hair as he pulls my mouth to his, kissing me with the same desperation I feel inside. Needing him, wanting him, desiring nothing more than him, my hands drop to the hem of his shirt, tugging it over his head and tossing it on the bed. He grips my ass, holding me in place as he lifts, pressing against me. Rubbing my palms down his strong chest, I’m fumbling with the button on his jeans when he suddenly goes rigid beneath me before jumping to his feet, sending me tumbling to the floor.

Jerkily, he fastens his jeans before snatching his T-shirt off the bed, tugging it over his head as I sit watching, shocked by the abrupt change. It shouldn’t surprise me; it was the same as what had happened this morning. He’d seemed to want me as much as I’d wanted him, then a harsh reality wakes me. I’ll never be anything but his best friend’s pitiful little sister chasing him around. It’s an icy reminder straight to the core when I look up into the face that stares callously down at me.

“I told you to get lost before Asher finds you in here. Now, get the hell out.”

Anger overpowers my humiliation as I unhurriedly rise to my feet. “You’re such a fucking coward.”

Methodically stepping forward, his body rigid, his tone harsh, he bites out, “Better than a desperate bitch throwing herself at someone who wants nothing to do with her.”

“‘Nothing’ sure felt rock hard when I was on your lap.”

“Hold a nasty bone in front of a hungry dog and he’ll still drool.”

I want to believe he’s resisting out of loyalty for his best friend, but I’ve never felt more humiliated and dirtier than I do in this moment. “I. Hate. You. You did this. You made the first move when you kissed me this morning. You’re nothing but a pathetic, miserable little bitch.”

“Good. Now haul your pitiful, needy ass out of here.” His glare is fixated on me. I hardly recognize him. The playful, happy persona is reserved for everyone except me.

“Go to hell, Bass.” Quickly rotating to escape what feels like my own personal hell, I head for the door.

“I’m already there.” The harsh, menacing tone is gone from his voice, almost causing me to turn and look at him. Almost. Yanking the door open, I dart out of the room and head for the nearest bathroom. Pulling the door open, I’m relieved it’s not occupied. The ruckus from the party downstairs ensures me that it’s still in full swing; everyone (except me and Asher, apparently) is having a great time as cheers erupt for who knows what. Either way, their night is going completely different than mine.

Did I really just throw myself at him? The room spins, and I feel like I’m about to get sick. Between the alcohol and my embarrassment, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.

I plop down on the floor next to the tub, wiping away the ridiculous tears I’m unable to stop from falling. It’s because I’m drunk. At least that’s what I tell myself as I finally stand up off the floor. Elliot Bass has always been a pissant, going out of his way to drive me insane. I’m not about to sit on the floor in his house, crying over his foolish ass.

Stepping to the sink, I snatch one of the neatly folded towels from the decorative basket and attempt to salvage what I can of my makeup. There’s not much left, so I opt to scrub it all off. That’s what I need to do. Scrub him out of my mind and my heart. Easier said than done because I’ve tried doing that for many years. I’d had a good handle on it until he tossed all my hard work out the window, showing me that the reality of kissing him was even better than I’d ever imagined, only to toss me aside afterward. Dickwad.

Finally emerging from the bathroom, my head is down, looking at my feet in an attempt to steady myself (to no avail) when I crash into a solid body, falling back until a firm but tender grip uprights me.

“Hey, you okay?” Grant studies my undoubtedly blotchy face from crying.

“Yep. Just heading home.”

“Already? It’s still early.”

“It doesn’t feel early.” I wobble a bit as Grant helps me balance again. “I’m good.”

“You don’t seem good. Come on. We’ll take a break while you wait on a ride.”

Looking up, I see him hesitantly gesture down the hallway as Elliot emerges from his room. Spotting us standing there, his harsh glare is still in place. “No. I’m going home.”

Turning, I do my best to walk away with whatever dignity I have left, which isn’t much, if any at all. Stepping out of the front door, I plop down on the stone staircase, reaching for my phone. At my empty pocket, I remember leaving it in the guest bedroom I’m supposed to be staying the night in. Shit. There’s no way I’m going back in that house. I can’t. At least not right now. I just want to get away. Shoving against the hard surface, I stumble to my feet. Walking a long distance is out of the question, so I trudge around back, knowing the guesthouse will be vacant since it’s the one place that’s off-limits during these miserable parties. As I elbow past several rowdy but happily-drunken partygoers, I maintain an emotionless (or more accurately: pissy) stare because I want to be left alone. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to discuss the big year coming up. I want to be left alone so I can crash and forget this day ever happened. I wish I could obliviate everything from the disastrous morning kisses to the hellish torment of the night.

Lethargically, I punch in the same code that’s used on the main house, but the lock buzzes, signaling an incorrect code. Trying once more, I slowly punch each number in, relieved when the mechanism unlocks, allowing me to push the door open. Stepping inside, my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I glance around the space, thankful to find it indeed vacant. Moving away from the door, I hurry to what I know to be a very comfortable couch as my legs feel like they are about to give out. Plopping down on the soft leather, I pull one of the throw pillows under my head as I kick my sandals off. Clamping my eyes shut, I hope to fall asleep fast so the night will be over soon. The whiskey must help because I don’t even realize I’ve dozed off until a hand rubbing up my bare thigh jars me wide awake, sending a jolt of fear through me as a tender kiss is pressed against my forehead. Gasping, my hands swing in front of my face, urging the unwanted touch away before attempting to remove the solid grip on my thigh.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s just me,” Grant says in a soothing voice, shifting back slightly but not enough for comfort as his hand stays in place on my thigh.