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Fuck things up even more.
“Back up,” she says, eyes clearing of the softness, of the sparks of desire our bodies have never had an issue creating.
“No.” A beat, ignoring the outrage dancing across her expression. “Tell me what you thought back there.”
“Nothing.”
I drop a hand next to her head, move until we’re plastered together, toes to chest. “Brit.”
My cock twitches.
My balls ache.
Wrong. This is wrong.
But it’s too late.
Our closeness or her name on my tongue…one of those seems to shake things loose. “You used to say that to me,” she says softly. “Used to be that for me.”
I frown, trying to process her words.
But then she continues speaking.
And the pieces come together with razor-sharp clarity.
“You promised if I needed you,” she whispers. “You promised you would be here for me. Always. And—” She presses her lips together, head jerking to the side.
But not before I see the tears glimmering in her eyes.
Not before I begin to hate myself.
No.
That’s already been firmly in place for a while now.
“I wasn’t,” I tell her.
Her shoulders hitch up, and she shoves me away, starts back down the hall. “No, Stefan”—not honey, not baby, not sweetheart—“you weren’t.” She sighs. “But—as you pointed out rather effectively when you asked for the divorce—neither was I.”
I move without thinking.
But it has unintended consequences, crowding her so quickly that I know the past rears up and smacks her hard across the face—forces her to remember another time when a man, when men, crowded her and hurt her and?—
She stumbles even though I don’t get close enough to touch her, tripping backward over her feet and going down hard.
I reach out a hand, try to catch her.
But I’m living with the blow of scaring her, of hurting her like those assholes from her past did, and I don’t react in time.
She hits the floor with a pained grunt.
One that’s much more intense than a simple fall to the floor.
One that’s filled with agony.
And…
I stop thinking.
