Page 80 of Addiction

His eyes remain looking over my shoulder, and the ache inside to have them on me deepens. “No, what you said was that you needed a Physical Therapist—”

“And that I wanted you there. So, where’s the issue?”

“The issue is that you weren’t a hundred per cent sold on the idea to begin with.”

“Jesus Christ.” He huffs, shaking his head. “What does that matter now?”

“Everything if I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“You’re not!”

“Then why can’t you look at me?”

His eyes close. I can’t bear the fact I’ve made him feel this way, regardless of knowing that, deep down, the only true issue between us is his feelings not my own. I’d happily give him my heart on a platter if he asked. He’s brought up those barriers so damn high I’m struggling to climb them.

Scrubbing his hand over his face, he finally looks at me. “So, I said I wasn’t completely happy with the idea. Would it have changed anything?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I’d have turned it down and walked away.”

“Why?”

“Because your feelings mean more to me than my own.”

My admission causes a flash of something in his eyes: a look I can only wish is desire, acceptance, and anything else that means he has realized how much he means to me.

To my surprise, he doesn’t step away when I move closer, nor does he pull away when I reach out and wrap my hand around his wrist. His hot breath caresses the skin on my face, his eyes lock with mine in a powerful stare, one that sends pleasure cascading down my spine. I want to know what is racing through his thoughts. I want to know everything. I want him.

“You can deny what’s going on here all you like, but I feel it and I want it. I want it so fucking much I can’t think of anything else.”

“Don’t say. Another. Fucking. Word,” he growls. Pulling away, he heads to the restroom, and I let him go, trying to get myself together.

I know I’ve said too much, but I regret nothing. Not when he looked at me like he did: like he felt everything I’d said to him.

He’s pacing as I enter the restroom, fists at his side.

“Asher I—"

Before I can do anything, he grabs me by the scruff of my shirt and slams me against the door. “What are you doing to me?” He breathes harshly, his chest rising and falling, and his expression laced with fear, yet beneath the dread is that underlying yearning that never fails to show when he looks at me.

That frustration I’d had with him is gone in seconds.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I whisper, letting my words settle.

I place my hands on his chest and his eyes slam shut, his heart racing hard under my palm. All those times I’ve caught him staring, the times we’ve been close, they’ve never been enough. That comfortable silence that falls between us, the one I only ever get when I’m with him… Everything. It all comes down to this.

He feels this.

He wants this.

“Asher…” I whisper. “Look at me.”

He shakes his head, his jaw locked tight. My hands have a mind of their own and they glide up his body, cupping the nape of his neck, and I welcome the feeling of him against my skin as he doesn’t pull away. I tug lightly against him, drawing him closer and his body willingly participates. We are a breath apart, dangerously close, and every nerve ending in my body is on high alert. Just like his. I can feel it. I can feel him against me.

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me? Do you have any idea how it feels knowing you want me?”