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His lips are smashed firm, his jaw ground tight and ticking, his pulse wild and uncontrolled. Sharp.
But his chest doesn’t rise and fall.
I would almost swear he was a zombie, dead on his feet, if he weren’t standing here right now. He looks dead, the way I wish to feel but am unable.
Not anymore.
Not since him.
He pushes closer, and I shuffle backward.
Back onto the patio deck, where the other girls have finally realized we’re no longer alone up here.
The shock is clear and loud, the gasps and giggles following, but the excitement doesn’t last long. It fades into the darkness around us, or maybe only for me as all that’s left is him, angry and an inch away.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He shoves against me, my body thumping against the railing and blocked from escaping by his.
“Jameson...” Cali calls, her voice hesitant. Unsure.
But I ignore her and so does he, if he heard her at all.
He’s fuming, his body flexing over and over again.
Scott’s shouts reach us from below, he screams for someone to grab the hose, barking for another to check the right side of the field.
Ransom’s eyes snap over my shoulder, toward the vineyards, and then he flicks his gaze to the deep plunge neck of my dress, to the high slit over my thigh.
Ah, of course.
It’s what I’m wearing that’s pushed him to show up tonight.
Not who I came with, why I ignored them all day.
Why I’m chasing a strong buzz, seeking comfort I shouldn’t and had never needed before he came in and warped my mind.
The stupid fucking dress is his concern, because how dare I...
My lips part with a low, drunken chuckle and I relax. Lifting my hands, I glide them along the cool metal behind me until my arms are stretched to their full length. I push up onto my toes, keeping my knee bent so the fabric slides off my skin, completely baring the smoothness there for any who wish to look.
I jerk when his hand darts out, gripping the material at its deepest V point and twists, balling it into his fist.
“This.” His voice is crisp, fixed, but only for me. “Is mine.”
“It was a gift.”
His knuckles press into my breastbone, his head lifting slightly, allowing me a somewhat better look. “I’m not talking about the fucking dress.”
I nearly choke on air, my eyes widening, only to narrow a moment later.
Me?
A heavy ache pushes against my ribs, but I don’t show it.
His?
“Yeah, mine.” He’s somehow closer. “The girl and what she’s wearing.” His wild eyes pop up. “Mine.”
I swallow.
Deny, deny, deny.
Love kills.
“You can have the dress—”
“I have the girl,” he snaps, my words clogging in my throat as the pad of his finger taps at my temple. “I’m in here.”
The hand gripping my top shifts, his knuckle now pressing near my left breast where my treacherous heart beats against him, as if begging to be heard or felt or any other stupid thing it knows I won’t want to ask for. “Getting close to here.”
His brows raise as he dares to slip beneath my dress, and right as a flash of fake blonde makes herself seen in the distance, purposely rounding us like a thirsty little vulture. “Been here—”
“Have you?” flies from me as I fight to slam the walls back into place, over my mind, my heart, and everything since he’s all over me, bleeding into the wounds I’ve kept patched with salon trips and smiles.
He freezes.
“’Cause I’m not so sure,” I force out. “Maybe it was your friends who slipped in—”
“Careful, baby.” His low, almost wounded rasp stings, but I hide it.
I have to.
This is too much.
And he’s a liar.
I’m a fucking toy, not good enough to look in the eye when he touches me.
Not worth the sight of desire.
A dark, dirty, damaged little secret.
My head falls back on a mocking laugh, and his muscles grow tenser.
I lock my eyes on his.
His gaze narrows, and my god, the pain in his harsh whisper. “Don’t.”
But I have to...
“Look at you.” I shake my head, speaking slowly in an attempt to keep from slurring my words. “Showing up tonight and acting the part of what, exactly? The disrespected wannabe alpha? Is your pride bruised?” I lean into him and his body twitches in anger.
“I know you get jealous. I see it in your eyes when I lay my head on Arsen’s chest, or when I smile at Beretta. Your jaw gets tight, like it is now, and you—”
“If you really think I don’t trust them with every fucking thing I own, I am, and I’ll be, you’re mistaken,” he hisses frankly. “There is no rift in our water and there never will be.” His eyes shift between mine. “But what about you, hmm? Is the ground beneath your feet starting to shake? Is your ocean on the edge of a tsunami, ready to spill over until all that’s left is a mess of broken parts?”
