Page 38 of Ruthless Deliverance

Me: Does what get easier?

Creed: Living without them.

Wow. Never expected that. Figured he’d have some smartass comment or crude response.

Me: I don’t know.

Creed: Has it with your mom?

The question feels like an overstep. But something tells me he genuinely wants to know.

Me: My mom didn’t die. She just left.

Creed: That must be worse. Ethan didn’t have a choice.

Me: I don’t think I’m the person you should be talking to.

Or the one I should be talking to like this. Because this makes me want to confide in him, talk to him about my mom. About my dad. About Gus and my gym family. But he can’t be that person for me, and I’m not that person for him.

Creed: There’s no one else.

What the hell do I say to that? It hits in a way it shouldn’t. Why do we gravitate to each other? Is there no one else that will fulfill that need? And it’s not just a physical one. Emotions and a weird connection are definitely very present between us. But I don’t have to decide on what to respond back as another message comes through.

Creed: Let me in.

About the time the message dings on the phone, so does the doorbell. Damn it.

Me: You really shouldn’t be here. And you should really talk to a professional after what happened.

No response on the phone.

The doorbell rings and what is probably his fist pounds on the door.

He’s not going away. Hurrying to the door, I open it against my better judgment. He remains standing in the doorway. “I did. I answered with the responses he wanted to hear so I could get out of that box.”

“Maybe that wasn’t the brightest idea. You should give him real answers, not the ones you think he wants to hear.”

Creed steps past me into the house, so I shut the door and turn to find him watching me. His voice strained as he says, “Then give me one real answer.”

Fuck. That is not where I wanted this to go. But I can’t stop it. I don’t want to stop it. “What’s the question?”

His eyes drop to my mouth, his palm cupping my cheek. I expect him to say something, anything but he doesn’t. He leans forward, tenderly feathering his lips on mine, his tongue lightly licking across my lips before he dips into my mouth. His body gradually inches closer until there’s no room remaining between us and guides me back against the door. Dropping his mouth to my neck, his tongue teases my skin as his hand moves over my side, down my thigh, and to my knee where he hooks his fingers, grips, and lifts my leg, holding it against his hip as he presses his rock-hard dick against me.

Even if I could regain some composure, I wouldn’t want to. Maybe if we scratch the itch, we can move on. At least that’s the bullshit I tell myself as I fully commit. “I didn’t hear a question.”

He lets out a low groan, “You’re not gonna make anything easy, are you, Puppet?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“How about Puppeteer? Or do you prefer Puppet Master? You’re the one switching up the dynamics after all, pulling on all my strings, yanking harder than I ever did. But I really need to know”—his fingers trail over my front, dropping between my thighs—“if you are finally gonna let me have a taste.”

Fuck yes. I need him to release something that my damn vibrator clearly isn’t handling, because I feel like I’m about to explode. But I have to ask for something from him, because I know he’s revoked my control and I’ll pay for it later. “One condition.”

His laugh vibrates against my neck, his fingers hooking the hem of my T-shirt, lifting it above my head. His eyes take in my nude chest, his sultry smile moving to my breast, his tongue teasing my nipple as his hand cups the other. “Anything” leaves his mouth before it’s fully suckling my nipple.

This would be a conversation much easier to have if he’d stop doing that for a second. But I don’t want him to either. Damn it. “Tell me. What do you fear?”

I anticipate a nonresponse or at the very most an evil laugh. Instead, he bluntly says, “Nothing.”