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“Get to know me?” His gaze has fallen to my mouth, eyes darkening, and when I look down, I see his hard cock lifting between his muscular legs to bob against his stomach.
I swallow hard, my core clenching again with desire, with want. Some of that must have shown on my face, because he steps forward, unfolds his arms and lifts a hand to my face.
“Cos…” he whispers.
“Let’s start,” I hear myself say, as if from a distance, “with that time you didn’t show up at the diner.”
“So this is what this is about?” His eyes darken. His hand drops to his side and I ache for that touch that never came.
No, that wasn’t why I’m leaving, but now I wait, curious about his reply. Curious and apprehensive, because running away is easy. Staying and hearing the truth quite another matter.
He rubs at his mouth. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? Something came up that day. I was late. That’s all.”
I shake my head. That’s not good enough. What was that something that was more important than me?
But it’s as if he can see right through me. “It’s not like that.”
“Like what?” I demand to know.
“I just… couldn’t make it, Cos. Does it matter why?”
This is my previous relationships on repeat. Déjà vu in all its awful glory.
“Maybe it matters to me,” I manage, and push past him to grab my clothes. He lets me pass and doesn’t follow me to the bedroom where I yank on my skirt and sweater and jam my feet into my boots. I can’t locate my underwear and am too annoyed to look for it, so I grab my jacket from the floor and march out.
As I move toward the apartment door, I catch a glimpse of him, standing outside the bathroom. His cheeks are flushed, and I can’t tell if he looks more pissed or… something I can’t put my finger on.
I force myself to keep going. See? A little voice says gleefully in the back of my mind. Told you this was a bad idea. He’s no different from Steve and any other boy you’ve met before.
Pity you had to come back to town to discover it.
Though you did get a good fuck.
Yes, there’s that, and it doesn’t explain why my hand is trembling as I lift it to turn the door handle, or why I feel like crying all over again.
For Christ’s sake.
I turn the handle, pull the door open and prepare to walk out.
Faint footsteps sound behind me, bare feet on the floor. “Wait. Cos.” He grimaces. “You don’t trust me, do you?”
“I don’t…” …trust men. I don’t trust myself, either. I shrug, angry at my thoughts. “I didn’t say that.”
“Did someone hurt you?” His eyes flash with anger as he says the words—anger on my behalf? He reaches for my hand, takes it. “Sit with me.”
His voice is firm, but also warm and inviting—and do I really want to leave?
I let him tug me back to the bedroom, sit me down on the edge of his bed. I don’t fight him. It doesn’t help that he’s still disconcertingly, beautifully naked, all rippling muscle and smooth skin.
Focus, Cos. I make myself look up, at his face. He’s studying me, a crease between his brows. His hand is still wrapped around mine.
He turns it over, so that mine is on top, and his thumbs strokes over my skin, sending shivers through me. “That afternoon I… overslept.”
I wait, but nothing more seems to be forthcoming. “Overslept. As in… a nap? You needed a nap so badly?”
A tinge of red rises to his cheekbones. “Something like that.”
“In winter?” The disbelieving note in my voice is plain to hear. “You were taking a nap?”
