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Is he smiling? If so, I hate that I’m facing away from him and missing it.
“Stop struggling,” he commands, but I just can’t.
If I quit moving, I’m going to feel things. I’m going to want to arch my back and press my ass against his groin. I’m going to want to turn in his arms and press my lips to his. I’m going to want to run my fingers through his serious haircut and tease my fingers along the shadow of his jawline.
And I’ll be rejected. Every interaction we’ve had over the last thirty-six hours has been a rejection, and I’m too raw from the last time to survive another one so soon.
Effortlessly, Flynn moves us, pushing me against the cold stone of the house, his body aligning with mine from shoulder to thigh. Did his fingers flex against my waist or am I projecting my own desires here?
I clear my throat to speak, but I’m unable to form words. Even fully dressed, the warmth of his body begins to seep into mine, and I didn’t realize how starved for touch I was until this moment.
“Why are you running?” His breath is warm on my face, his chin resting on my shoulder.
“I—” The words cut off. I’m no expert on situations like this, but I’m fairly certain it’s not just his heart pounding against my body.
Jesus. Really? Does my running from him turn him on? If so, holding me like this really isn’t a deterrent. I think he’s going to find it has the opposite effect on me.
“Hmm?” It sounds like a purr, and I wish I was brave enough to wiggle my lower half to verify my presumptions, but I’m not.
I don’t think a cold shower is going to be enough to calm the heat rushing through my blood right now.
“I want you to chase me,” I pant, squeezing my eyes closed with the words.
I’ve said them numerous times before but until this moment, I said them in an effort to drive the people my parents hired away. I don’t want Flynn to disappear. I don’t want him to get fired like all the others. I want to get to know him better. I want him to get to know the me that isn’t a spoiled brat hellbent on getting what she wants. The only problem is, I don’t know how to make that transition. Man, I really need a session with my therapist.
“Are you going to go inside and go to bed if I let you go?”
Please, don’t let me go.
I manage a shrug, and he pushes harder against me. What he probably deems a punishment makes me moan. There’s no denying his reaction to this situation. It’s pressed against me, hard and ready.
I’m seconds away from throwing myself at him, knowing it’ll be hard for him to deny me in the state I’m in, and that scares the hell out of me. I freeze instead, clearing my throat in an attempt to build the courage to ask him to step back, but it seems he’s a mind reader because he moves of his own volition, putting at least a foot of space between us. His arms also fall away, but I don’t make a move to pull myself from against the side of the house. Cool night air hits my back, making it very clear just how much heat we were generating between the two of us.
“I want you to go to bed.”
I want you to come with me.
Despite my need for space, I still can’t stop the train of thought.
“I’m not a child,” I manage, finally taking a step back. I focus on adjusting my clothes and avoiding his eyes.
“You’re acting like one. What would’ve happened if you fell and hurt yourself climbing down the side of the house?”
I would’ve cried, regretted my decision, and felt sorry for myself.
“I was fine,” I snap. “I do it all the time.”
It’s only half of a lie considering I haven’t done it in years, but he doesn’t know that.
“Go to bed, Remington.”
I bite my lower lip, the growl in his voice doing dirty things to me. Would he use the same tone when he commanded me to come?
I shake my head to rid it of the thoughts. Maybe him sticking around isn’t such a good thing. I can already feel my sanity slipping.
“Yes,” he demands, reading my reaction wrong.
With a huff, acting in character, I turn around and stomp toward the front door. Flynn uses his key to open it, and I don’t waste any time getting away from him.
Once in my room, I strip naked and jump into the coldest shower my body can manage, refusing to do what I really want to do. Touching myself to thoughts of him isn’t going to happen, not with the number of times he’s shot me down. I may be a little crazy, but I’m not that desperate.
