He lets out a low, probably involuntary sound that isnota growl—it’s something needier that he instantly covers with a step toward the door. “I should go.” His fingers shake for a split second before they flex, and he pulls any sign of emotion under control.
“This is your place.”
He doesn’t answer.
I bend to pick up my clothes, filling the uncomfortable silence between us with the sound of my pants skimming my sticky legs, my zipper closing, then clear my throat. “It’s all good. I’ll leave you to it.”
I didn’t expect aftercare, but a fucking shower might have been nice. Ugh.
He reaches out to touch my forearm as I start toward the door but stops himself. “I can take you home.”
A bitter laugh falls from my lips before I can stop it. “Let’s not try to pretend tonight was a real date, Artemis. I’ll make my own way home.”
His throat works, but he doesn’t say anything. His jaw twitches, a tiny betrayal of how deeply my words land. Any hope that was flickering in my chest gets snuffed out on the coldness sweeping through the room. His coldness.
I leave him standing in a pool of silence and regret and probably my cum. My hips ache from the familiar pulse of where his fingers pressed into my skin. I can still feel the ghost of his grip, like my body hasn’t realized he’s gone yet. My unsteady steps turn my gut-punched insides from wrecked and confused to smoldering determination.
Determination for what? To chase harder or to stop chasing entirely? I’m not yet sure. But one thing’s for sure, that’s not the last time I’ll hear from Mr. de la Peña. Even if perhaps, it should be. Artemis is about to implode like a dyingstar wearing skates and backed all-the-way-up with emotional constipation.
Part of me wants to reach out to him, to warn him, protect him, or at least ride the waves with him, but he’s made his decision. And I need to respect it.
CHAPTER 25
Artemis
Mistakes were made.
Shit.
Every breath I take is a reminder of how badly I wanted it. The house door shuts behind me with a soft click, but it lands like a gunshot behind my ribs. Am I bleeding out into my chest?
I make it to the car without breathing, without thinking, without feeling—No, I can’t even lie to myself. I’m feeling too much, feeling fucking everything.
My fingers twitch like they’re still digging into his hips. The steering wheel is cold under my hands. My palms are hot. My pulse is a riot. I sit there, unmoving, waiting for something inside me to settle before I start the car to head back to Iowa.
Spoiler alert: It doesn’t.
I can still taste him. Salt-slicked skin. Breath. Heat. Like he tattooed my fucking tongue. My jaw flexes so hard it aches. My hips want to shift, to chase the fading glimmer of pressure, and it pisses me off even more. I don’t lose control like that. I don’tletmyself lose control like that. Not with anyone.
I start the car just to have a noise in the silence. It takesanother ten minutes before I’m on an even enough keel to face the road. It’s the middle of the night, roads are quiet, and everything is shrouded in darkness.
Shit. It’s the middle of the night. I should have taken him home. The drive should calm me. It doesn’t. Every stoplight flashes memories across my vision like taunts. Xavier’s mouth going slack as he melted for me. His back arching. The breath he punched out when I pushed him open. The sound he made when I—I grip the wheel harder. If I squeeze any tighter, the wheel’s going to crack—or I am.
It was a mistake. No. Worse than that. It was… indulgent. Stupid and reckless. The exact thing I don’t allow myself to be. Theexactthing I can’t afford to be right now.
After driving around aimlessly for who knows how long? The sun is fighting to come up by the time I pull into the grocery store lot—because I can’t go home like this—I’m unsettled. I need something normal. Ordinary and routine. Something that doesn’t feel like Xavier’s skin on mine.
The cold air bites my face when I step out of the car. Good. I deserve the sting. I walk inside. Fluorescent lights, the hum of freezers, the early morning crowd before work… It’s all painfully normal. All fine. ExceptI’mnot fine.
I head straight for the drinks aisle because grabbing a protein shake is muscle memory, the closest thing to grounding I have. I grab the bottle, my hands still shaking.
“Jesus, Artemis, who died?”
I freeze. My stomach swoops like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t even though there’s no way anyone could know what I did.
My best friend, Scott, stands at the end of the aisle, a basket of ramen, Twizzlers undoubtedly for my sister, and energy drinks in hand, looking at me like I’m a bomb he’s debating poking with a stick. Or running from.
“What? Nothing. No one. Why?” Smooth, man. Real smooth.
