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4
Bring them down.
Make them pay.
The words beat against the inside of my skull, chilling the heat of my arousal so much that I wouldn’t be surprised if Rory can feel the temperature change on my skin.
A moment ago, I was dying for more, ready to reach down between us and stroke him again before guiding him to my sopping pussy and wrapping my legs around him. Instead, I turn my head a little to break our kiss, pushing at his chest.
Whatever else he might be, Rory’s enough of a gentleman to take the hint, leaning back and kneeling between my legs as he looks down at me. His eyes flicker with desire as he takes in the sight of my naked body, probably still flushed and a little sweaty despite the sudden coolness in my veins. Then he flops down onto the mattress beside me, wrapping one arm around me so that I’m held loosely in his embrace.
“I’m sorry about your mom, Hurricane,” he murmurs, returning to our earlier conversation. “But I have a feeling she’d be really proud of you if she could see you now.”
I don’t respond to that. I can’t.
Instead, I just make a quiet noise of acknowledgement in my throat, blinking rapidly.
We lie like that for several minutes, and it feels like my mind and body are at war with each other, my heart caught in the middle of the battle. I do my best not to let the turbulence of my emotions show, closing my eyes and breathing deeply until my pulse returns to a somewhat normal rhythm.
Rory leaves a little bit later, dropping a quick kiss to my lips before slipping off the bed and throwing his clothes back on. He winks at me and closes the door behind himself, leaving me alone in my room. I consider getting up and going to find something to eat, but I can’t bring myself to move just yet. I need to regain my equilibrium.
My head is still spinning from the orgasm and the heavy make-out session, and I need to figure out a way to get back on sure footing before I go downstairs and see the rest of the guys.
Also, I’m not sure how I feel about them maybe knowing what Rory and I were doing up here. So I stay on my bed for a while longer, hugging a pillow to my chest.
Eventually, my stomach growls so loud I can’t ignore it, so I get up and get dressed, taking time to drag a brush through my hair so I don’t look like I’ve been rolling around in bed when I get down to the first floor.
It’s mostly quiet in the house, but Sloan’s in the kitchen when I get there. I tense up for a second, considering just turning around and walking out again.
It’s hard to even look at him when I hate him so fucking much, even if he’s just standing there with a cup half lifted to his mouth, a plate in front of him as he stands at the kitchen island.
He looks at me, and I stare back for a second before shaking myself and moving to the fridge. Having a reason to put my back to him is good, even if I do feel like I’m on high alert. I don’t have any reason to trust him, after all, and even if he’s not likely to just shoot me right in the middle of his kitchen, I can feel the tension rising in me.
“Did you eat yet?” Sloan asks, and I frown at the jug of whole milk sitting in the middle of the fridge. Why is he asking? Why does he care?
“No,” I say, tone short. “Not yet.”
“What have you been doing all day?”
None of your fucking business.
It’s right on the tip of my tongue to say it and deal with the consequences later, but I swallow it down. Snapping at Sloan like that isn’t going to help anything. Usually, I don’t have this much of an issue being around him or trading barbed comments with him, but it’s different now.
“Just… stuff,” I say.
I’m definitely not telling him that part of the “stuff” was fucking R
ory. That’s really none of his business.
My head is still in the fridge, and I’m glad I can’t see his face. I don’t want to know what his expression looks like right now. I already know I can’t trust anything he says or does. He killed my dad with a blank look on his face, like it was nothing. And I’m already used to seeing him look pissed off at me. Whatever I might read in his expression right now, nothing can change my opinion of him.
And I don’t want him to see the look on my face either. I’m having a hard time controlling it, so I don’t know if it’ll be rage or sadness that he’ll see if he looks at me now.
“Stuff. Descriptive,” Sloan mutters under his breath.
I suck in a breath of my own and then let it out. Dragging my thoughts away from the tension that clogs the air, I try to think about dinner.
Maybe I’ll make a salad or some chicken. There’s a steak in the back that’s been there for a couple days, so maybe I’ll claim it. I try to think about anything other than how pissed off I am, but the weird, tense energy in the kitchen doesn’t change.
