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But that’s what wishful thinking does for you. Leads you astray. Betrays your weaknesses. I want her to care, to worry. Isn’t that fucked? My head is screwed on wrong.
“Yeah, well, I was holed up here. Working on some things.” I avoid looking at her face, not to feed said wishful thinking.
“You stayed here, didn’t go home at all?”
Why is she asking me this? “That house isn’t my fucking home.”
“Ross...”
“I just went to buy some painkillers, okay? But they won’t sell to me. Told ya.”
“And that’s why you made me feel like I offended you by existing?”
I shrug again, turning away to hide a frown, my unease at how sorry I am about that—and a wince on its heels when it pulls on the cuts under my ribs. “I’m an ass.”
“That you are. Let me see.” She waves at my T-shirt. “Pull it up.”
Is that a good idea?
Probably not, but I’m beyond caring. I want her to touch me. I’m dying to feel her hands on me.
“What do I get in return?” I wink at her. “Showing you this hot bod costs good bucks, you know?”
“Oh screw you, Ross.” She says it mildly, though. Plus, she doesn’t sound put out, and doesn’t walk away. Her bag thumping to the concrete floor, she lifts my T-shirt, starts tugging on the gauze I clumsily taped over the cuts. “Let me see.”
I hiss and stop her. “I’m all right. Told you.”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
“Is this a trick question?” I snort. “Lemme think... It keeps the girls interested.”
“You really are an ass.”
“And well you know it, sweet cheeks.” It comes out more bitter than I’d intended. It’s familiar, expected banter. It should make me relax. No idea why it’s twisting my guts up even more. She’ll run. She should, if she knows what’s good for her.
But again she doesn’t move away. Why doesn’t she leave?
I want her close, closer—and yet I’m trying to push her away. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here. It’s like I keep pushing her buttons just to see if she will give up on me and leave. That would be familiar, known terrain, would feel safe.
She’s still here.
Her hands wander up my chest, lifting my T-shirt out of the way, and shivers go through me. How can her light touch feel so damn good? It warms me through, fires me up, cranks up the pressure with every slight movement. Makes my dick hard, so hard I can’t stand it.
I want more. So much more.
But her fingertips pause on top of the gauze. “Ross...” Her brow creases. “Good Lord. How did you get this?”
It takes me a long moment to gather my scattered thoughts, pull my mind out of the gutter. What the hell is she looking at?
Ah fuck, it’s the scar. The goddamn scar. “My dad.”
She tries to lift my T-shirt more but I stop her. Nevertheless, her fingertips follow the ugly raised tissue up underneath the fabric, up to my shoulder, making me shiver. “Is it true, then?”
“What is? You’ll have to be more specific.” I’m breathless. Why the fuck am I breathless? Every brush of her fingers on my chest sends bolts of lust through me, tightening my pants until I’m in real pain. I’ve wanted her for so damn long, and she’s so damn close.
“That your dad tried... that he tried to kill you.”
“Yeah.” I drag my tongue over dried lips. “He tried alright. But he missed.” I’m looking down, trying to see where she’s touching me, going practically cross-eyed, until my gaze snags on her cleavage and I have to swallow a groan. This girl will be the death of me.
