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“Look,” I say, softly, “I’m tired, and I’m sure you’re tired too.”
He just spins on his heel, walks away from me, and the sight is so much like that night, the night he left, the night he asked for a divorce that I’m frozen there for a moment, a giant ball of hurt.
Then I realize he’s walking into my bedroom, and not down the stairs, not out the front door, and I snap out of it.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I snap as I hobble after him.
He ignores me, nods to the bed. “Lie down.”
A flicker of heat between my thighs before I regain control of myself. “Go home.”
Which isn’t fucking here.
He just continues to ignore me, moving to the shelves, picking up the jar of bruise cream, shoulders stiffening as his eyes drag across a book sitting sideways on top of the other books.
And there my heart goes again.
Because…
We had fun acting that book out.
He moves to the bed, nods his head sharply. “Lie down.”
“You need to go home.”
He unscrews the lid, tosses it on the nightstand. “Brit, just lie the fuck down.”
I dig my toes into the carpet, grind my teeth together. “Stefan?—”
His eyes flash, and I see it on his face.
He’s not going to give.
And I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m ready to pass out and sleep until this is all a faint memory.
Maybe that’s why I do what I do next.
I exhale quietly and move to the bed. I ignore the spicy scent of him as I climb onto the mattress, arms folded and face shoved into the pillow, bracing, waiting, wishing for it to both happen and not, all at the same time.
And then it does.
Fingers go to the hem of my hoodie, tug it up, exposing my naked skin to the cool evening air. “You never used to wear so many clothes to bed,” he murmurs.
I freeze then I lift my chin, twisting my neck so I can glance over at him. “I get cold now.”
His blue eyes cool, sending a shiver through me, but I just ignore it, ignore him because my eyes are catching on the faint pink scar on my side, mostly hidden by Roxie’s name…which is mostly hidden today courtesy of the giant bruise blooming on my side.
Then I settle my forehead back onto the pillow, grit my teeth, and promise myself that I just have to endure this one thing.
Then I can sleep.
I hear the glop of him scooping from the container of bruise cream, the slick sounds that remind me of other slick sounds?—
Enough.
I jump as cold fingertips hit my skin, sending a bolt of pain through me, but then his fingers are moving, smoothing over my side, lightly rubbing the cream in, spreading it all along my flesh.
Goose bumps and more heat between my legs.
