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“Not interested.” She laughed softly. Before her brain could tell her legs to stop moving, she took a few steps, until she stood toe to toe with Charlie on the sidewalk. They were making a scene, but thankfully, there wasn’t much traffic on the random summer evening. Broadway might be a different story, but Maine Street on the east side of town was pretty quiet in the evening.
Charlie’s eyes blazed with anger, with a dare, as she stared him down. Hand trembling again, but this time it had nothing to do with Sutton or Bryony, Tatum reached for him and gathered his black shirt in her fingers. She yanked him close and pressed to her tiptoes to kiss him.
There was no finesse. No time for that. No time for restraint. She smashed her lips to his, the sting of their skin pressed to her teeth a reminder that sometimes this stuff hurt. Love. Sex. Flirting. All of it. For women like her, it hurt. Pretty blue eyes and thick dark lashes and sweet talking, silver-tongued Irish boys couldn’t change that.
Getting involved with Charlie Murphy would hurt.
And still, she kissed him. She squeezed her fingers hard, pinching his chest, drawing a gasp from his lips, still pressed to hers. Angry, greedy for more of him, for more pain, Tatum took the opportunity to slide her tongue between his lips and find his, ready and willing to spar with her.
Feeling faint, desperately needing to breathe, she broke the kiss and leaned her forehead on his chin. Charlie’s breath was ragged like hers, the heat of his body making her hot and uncomfortable.
“What the fuck was that?” His gruff voice strummed a string straight from her head to her core.
“Me.” She kissed him again. Softer this time. Quick, easy kisses over his parted lips and his cheek. “Not being interested in you.”
15
Paralyzed by the assault of her kiss, and now by her whispered words—me, not being interested in you? What the fuck did that mean?—Charlie stood frozen as she marched back toward the door.
“What?” He snapped out of the stupor when she disappeared inside and scrambled after her. Catching her at the elevator, he covered her hand with his as she drilled her finger into the up button. “What the hell?”
“Just leave me alone,” she mumbled.
“You can’t kiss me like that and then tell me to leave you alone,” he argued. “Tell me. What the hell is going on in your head?”
She tilted her head back and eyed him with a sarcastic laugh.
“My head is the last place you will ever wanna be, Charlie Murphy.”
“Ohmygod.” He let go of her hand and dragged his own down over his cheeks. When the elevator doors opened, he moved quickly to join her. “You’re—”
“Crazy?” she offered with a sweet smile.
“You’re a mindfuck, Tatum,” he answered. “Christ, I’ve been dying to talk to you, to get to know you for over a month, and you blow me off repeatedly. Until you launch yourself at me on Maine Street and devour me.”
“Are you complaining?”
“About the kiss? No.” He shrugged. “But everything else? Fuck yes.”
The elevator stopped on the sixth floor. Charlie followed her out the doors and down the hall to the right. His dick hurt. His head hurt. His heart hurt. Hell, he’d never been the guy to force himself on a woman, not even when he was a dumb, horny kid. He didn’t mind that she’d kissed him. He loved that she’d kissed him, even the manhandling and the pinch that would surely leave a bruise on his chest. But he wanted more.
An explanation.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside. Charlie expected her to shut it in his face, but she only stood there, eyes locked with his.
“What do you want me to do?” he whispered.
“I want you to come inside and fuck me,” she answered simply. “I want it hard and fast. I want you to fuck the ghosts out of my head, and then I need you to go away.”
Charlie groaned.
“But there’s the problem.” She shook her head. “You’ll just be another ghost to me. When it’s over.”
“That’s an exorcism. Not sex.”
“You asked me what I wanted,” she reminded him.
“I’m not that guy, Tatum,” he argued. “I don’t wanna fuck you up against the door and walk out before your feet are on the floor.”
