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And I’m staring at one right now. At my own crime, and that emptiness doesn’t feel as damning anymore, nor is it lethal. It’s just lurking in the background, unable to manifest into anything.
Nate had always had that effect on me. His presence is so sharp and imposing that it eats up any hollowness.
“Let her go.” It’s Alex who speaks, sounding drunker than me.
I’m not really focused on them, because my wrist is being held hostage by Nate, and my soft curves are glued to his hard muscles, and he’s glaring.
God, even the way he glares is hot. My thighs clench and my nipples harden, and it has nothing to do with the not-really-dancing I was just doing.
From my peripheral vision, I can see Chris shaking his head at Alex while rubbing the back of his neck.
Alex, however, steps toward us—or, more accurately, staggers. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m her husband. Put your hands on my wife again and I’ll break them.” And just like that, Nate pulls me behind him and pushes through the crowd.
It’s impossible to keep up. One, I’m drunk—so drunk that I see double and can’t feel my legs. Two, I think Nate just told them he’s my husband. He broke his own rule and told my friends that we’re married.
Holy shit.
I think I’m drunker than I thought, because I’m unable to sort through all of these things.
When I keep tripping over my own feet, Nate picks me up bridal style. My arms automatically wrap around his neck and I squeal, but I don’t hear it through all the noise and chaos.
Once again, I’m caught in a trance by how easily he carries me, how effortless the act is, as if he’s not lifting a person in his arms. Not just any person. Me. His wife. That’s what he said, right?
Put your hands on my wife again and I’ll break them.
I wiggle in his hold but not so he’ll put me down, just to feel him more. To feel the strength of his taut arms wrapped around my back and under my legs. To soak in the hardness of his chest against my side and to breathe in his scent that’s more intoxicating than alcohol.
He’s not paying any attention to me, though.
Nate never watches me, not like I watch him. He doesn’t stop to see me as I see him.
The emptiness I shoved to the background jostles and rears its ugly head, and I don’t have the strength to push it back down.
I don’t have the strength to fight it.
The night air hits us and I shiver as he strides toward the parking lot. I don’t even focus on the onlookers who are watching us.
They don’t matter.
They never did. People don’t understand. People judge.
He doesn’t. Nate’s never judged me, even when he acts like an asshole with multiple jerk tendencies. He’s strict but never judgmental.
He’s practical, but never narrow-minded.
“Nate…” I whisper his name in the silence of the night, and I sound so drunk and emotional because he’s still not looking at me.
“Shut the fuck up, Gwyneth. I don’t want to hear your voice right now.” The harsh anger of his words is like a slap to my face, a hard one that springs tears. They’re gathered in my lids now and I don’t get the chance to wipe them away before he opens his car door and drops me in the passenger seat.
After he fastens my seatbelt, he yanks off his jacket and throws it on top of me. It smells like him—spices and woods and damnation. That’s what he is and always will be.
My crime and my worst damnation.
Another word on myDlist.
By the time he’s in the driver’s side, I’m clenching the jacket tight against my hammering chest.
