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I don’t say anything back to that. Just watch him.
“You don’t mean anything to me,” he adds. “You’re not—”
Priest breaks off that sentence harshly, like he’s snapping it in half abruptly.
I can think of plenty of ways he might have ended it, but as I gaze up at his angular features, a sudden realization shoots through me. He wasn’t going to insult me, to say I’m not worth it or something. He would probably have just finished his sentence if that were the case.
I sit up, pinning him with my stare.
“I’m notwho?” I ask.
The stone-faced man looks away, and I can see the muscles in his jaw tense.
So I’m right, then. There is someone. Or was someone.
Someone he maybe loved or who at least meant a lot to him. Someone he lost? It explains a lot about him when I really think about it.
He’s not just a heartless asshole or a cold, callous motherfucker. He’s broken just like I am. All the way to his bones. Down to his soul. In a way that can’t be healed or fixed.
I stand up, letting my shirt fall back down around my thighs, and he looks at me again. I hold that inscrutable blue gaze and get right up into his personal space.
Without kissing him or touching him in any other way, I spit on my hand, then reach down his pants and touch his cock. It’s warm, but soft. Even after he just fucked me with his fingers on the couch after watching me touch myself on the piano, he’s not hard.
His cock is completely limp, and when I wrap my fingers around it and stroke it, it doesn’t respond immediately the way most guys’ would.
Priest narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t shove me away. Doesn’t tell me to fuck off.
I keep stroking him, twisting my hand a little, really working at it, and after a bit, he starts to get hard. I can feel his cock growing against my palm, the heat rising as blood rushes downward.
His features tighten a little as his cock stiffens. His breath catches, and then, all at once, his shaft goes soft again.
Something passes over his face, although I can’t read the expression. He’s still breathing a little harder than usual, and his Adam’s apple shifts up and down as he swallows, but other than that, he doesn’t move at all.
I release him and step back. There’s a slight ache in my chest, as if some part of me is connected to some part of him, a wire stretching taut between us. I can’t help but feel as if somehow that small moment was more intimate than anything that came before it.
It’s like that sometimes, when broken people reveal their broken parts. Like finding some little bit of connection that you usually don’t let the rest of the world see.
But I’ve seen it in Priest now—I’ve felt it. And I understand him better because of it.
“There’s nothing wrong with being broken,” I tell him quietly. He blinks, his long lashes sweeping down over his bright blue eyes and then back up again. “Some things aren’t meant to be whole. And some things don’t need to be fixed.”
Taking another step away, I turn and slip out of the room.
