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I've spent the entire night trapped inside some tornado of conflicting emotions that whirl through me so fast, changing course so unexpectedly that at times I've wanted to run out the door, at others, throw a drink in his face, and at others, to wrap my arms around him until this twisted knot of tension I've felt for weeks has unwound from my belly.
And then there’s the other sensation which comes from the endless awareness of his tall, powerful body, from his relentless gaze on my face, from the visceral power of our chemistry—one that blasts that which I've felt with other men out of the stratosphere, leaving a blazing trail of metal sparks in its wake.
Or at least, for my part…
Between moments of anger, of claustrophobia, of relief, of bitterness, there have been other moments that trickled through me like warm streams of pleasure winding their way through my body, opening up paths in soil that has been dry since he touched me.
There’s been no one since him.
But then, there couldn’t be. Between the trauma of dealing with my ex’s plea deal, and the relief at finally having the hope that I can move on from him, I've ached from the loss of Greyson’s presence, while hating him for every minute of the discomfort he left behind.
I don’t even know why I’m this angry. By rights, I shouldn’t be…
I’m not boyfriend material. I can’t offer you anything other than this night.
He told me that.Twice, if I recall.
It’s not like he made me some false promise or didn’t warn me.
It’s just… the way we made love. It was unlike anything I've ever felt—more intimate, more raw, more powerful.
God, I feel like such an idiot; the simpleton whose hormones are whipped up to the point that she can’t tell when a holiday romance is over.
Maybe for him, it was just like any other night. I know full well that a man like him has probably slept with hundreds of women in his life. It can’t have affected him the way it did me. After all, the next day, he made it clear we shouldn’t see each other again.
He dealt with the case with that man and the knife, as well as the case, texting me daily updates until I couldn’t take hearing the sanctimonious concern in his words anymore and told him to leave me alone.
If you really gave a shit, you’d be here, I’d mutter to myself as I got them.
Except he already went above and beyond what he had to, not to mention getting stabbed stopping a man who was sent to scare me.
He’s almost a stranger and he had the assistant DA on the phone to me several times, he had his annoying security guys stalk me. He’d check on me. He did everything short of be here.
Not only should I not be angry, I should be fucking well grateful.
And Iam, but… I can’t seem to stop the anger, even though I know annoyingly well that behind it is hurt, pain, longing.
God knows why. I mean, before those last two nights, he was just the arrogant prick who made me inconveniently tingly.
The prick who left as if he felt nothing after that night.
And yet he’s here…
If he feels nothing, why is he here?
What does he want to accomplish? Messing me around again?
And why am I oscillating between shouting at him to go fuck himself, and jumping up and straddling him in the hopes he carries me inside, fucks me very very hard, and never lets go?
As the silence bears down on us and I try to ignore how ludicrously handsome he is, his hair slightly longer than it was this summer, framing his face whose cheekbones are as if carved of stone, sharp shadows cut beneath them due to the lamp overhead, my lips part as I attempt to muster up words.
Only my effort is arrested by the sound of his deep voice. “I… I should have called first. I’m sorry.”
I wrap my hands around my waist over my oversized denim jacket, one so at odds with his designer one. “Why didn’t you?” I ask, my jaw tightening. “What did you want?”
“I needed to talk to you, Indie. Indigo,” he corrects, as if unsure he has the right to use my name… or rather, my chosen name, the one I picked for myself when I got out of my mother’s so-called “care”, and went down to city hall to ensure it was forever legally my name, and not the one that someone who had wished me so much ill throughout my childhood had chosen for me and spat out at me for eighteen years as if the sound of my name was some bitter taste on her tongue.
I search his eyes. The usual annoyingly impenetrable poise isn’t quite there today. Instead, there’s some solemn note painted into the shadows around his almond-shaped gray eyes.
