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They caused my hands to shake.
They caused my feet to turn numb. I wasn’t even sure how much longer they would hold my weight.
As much as it killed me to admit, he had been clear.
He had given me that warning.
But for some reason, I’d thought last night had changed things between us. I’d thought it was a new beginning.
I’d thought that he’d come into my room because he wanted more.
That the moments we’d shared when he’d opened up about his mom were the first step of him letting me in.
And maybe in that moment, that had been true.
But in this moment, he was deflecting. He was attempting to push me away because he couldn’t deal with the way he was feeling.
Was it due to the conversation we’d had about his mom and the rawness he’d shown?
Or that he’d come into my room and we’d shared such a deep level of intimacy?
I didn’t know.
But what I did know was that I was human. I had feelings. I was sensitive to words when they were spoken by someone I cared about.
And Grayson’s hurt.
Especially since they were phrased to make me believe that I’d read the situation all wrong.
That he just wanted to fuck me.
That he wanted me to accept his proposition to keep this a no-strings-attached relationship, so he’d have someone to sleep with over the next year instead of jerking off.
That I meant absolutely nothing to him.
And as much as I tried, I couldn’t hide the fact that his words were still affecting me. That they caused my stomach to churn as I whispered, “I wasn’t trying to cuddle you.”
“No? Then what were you doing?”
“I was trying to get warm. You wouldn’t know this about me, since you know nothing about me, but I’m always cold.”
“The guest wing has its own thermostat. Turn it up as high as you want.”
God. He was such a dick.
“Noted.” I smiled even though it took every ounce of strength out of me. And because I hadn’t been emotionally tortured enough, I asked the question that wouldn’t stop haunting me: “You’re really going to walk away once the year is up ... aren’t you?”
Even with a low voice, the question dripped with angst.
“Yes. I am.” He downed half his drink and reconnected our stares. “I’m Mr. Wicked. Mr. Good Time. Mr. I’ll Fuck Your Brains Out. I’m not capable of love, and you can’t change that about me. Don’t even try, you’ll just be wasting your time.” He left his glass and clutched my rib cage, high enough that his palm pressed against the side of my breast. “But if you want to get naughty this morning, I’m fucking game.”
I knew this was an act of masking his feelings. I knew that because there was absolutely no way he could look at me like this and feel nothing. That he could make love to me, like he had last night, and not care about me.
But if I knew this, then why was this conversation still stabbing at my heart?
Why had I woken up this morning with hopes that everything was going to be different?
That today would be the day he was going to drop his shield and toss it off the balcony of his penthouse?
