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He grins. “It loosened you up, didn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I admit, pulling my legs up to my chest. “It did.”
“So.”
“So you said you’d go first. Tell me your secret, Tyler Stone.”
“I’m a sex addict.”
A sex addict?
Another addictive personality? Oh, fucking shit. Just when I thought this situation couldn’t get worse, he admits that. And not just any addictive personality—one addicted to a physical act.
This cements in my mind that I can’t see him. How can I? He’s addicted to sex. I’m addicted to love. What a fucking hoo-haa.
I push away from him on the sofa, but this time, he doesn’t grab me back. He keeps his eyes on mine and talks.
“I’m aware of it, and I accept it. It’s not a problem for me—mostly. The problem isn’t the addiction. It’s what I want from sex. I want more than what one-night stands can give me, and I don’t mean a relationship. I want someone who’s not bothered about committing anything other than her body. I want—need—someone who can open herself to me and accept what I want. That I need more than just vanilla.”
“Is that… Is that why you said what you said to me?” I swallow.
He nods. “You’re fiery, Liv. I don’t believe you’re happy with good, old vanilla sex. At least not all the time.”
My dream flashes in my mind again. He’s right—if I were, I wouldn’t be dreaming of him tying me to my bedpost with a scarf while he goes down on me. I wouldn’t be dreaming of being blindfolded on my knees while I wrap my lips around his cock.
I reach out and grab the wine. My clit throbs at my thoughts. I take a long drink from the glass, somehow emptying it, and run my fingers through my hair.
“You’d be right,” I say, my throat like sandpaper despite the wine. “But that’s not the problem.” I stand, walking over to the window. I push aside the dark curtain and stare out at the city.
“Then tell me what it is, babe. I’m fucked if you don’t. There’s nothing I can do.” He comes up behind me and rests his hands on the windowsill, blocking me in. “I told you. Now it’s your turn.”
I push his arm away and spin out of his grasp, once again running my fingers through my hair as I struggle to put the words together in a sentence that’s oh so simple.
“What is the problem, Liv?”
I stop and close my eyes. “You’re addicted to sex”—I open them again—“and I’m addicted to love.”
He stops. Freezes. His eyes widen a tiny amount. Enough that I notice it.
“I’m addicted to love and people. I get addicted to the sounds of people’s voices and the touches of their hands. I get addicted to their habits, their quirks. I am in love with love.”
“How is that possible?”
I shrug. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be addicted to it, would I? But that’s it. That’s why I sent the text. Because I cannot get addicted again. Not to someone like you,” I whisper. “You’re too dangerous. You’re too tempting for me.”
“What if I’m willing to take the risk? What if my addiction to sex is more an addiction to sex with you than sex in general?”
“It’s not your risk to take!” My voice rises a few decibels. “It’s not your mind or your heart it fucks with. It’s mine, and I’m the one who has to take the fallout. I did it once before. I won’t do it again. I can’t. I can’t take that risk, no matter how much I want to. With you.”
He strides across the room and cups my face. He presses his lips to mine in a heated kiss that swirls my insides. I grip his sweater, holding myself to him despite knowing that it’s wrong.
“Feel that, baby girl? That’s not a risk. It’s a fucking certainty. You have no more power to stay away from me than I do you. Every day, every single day, I dream about you. About your body.” He drops one hand to my neck and the other to my waist. “About running my hands over you, kissing your skin, watching you come under me. And more. So much more, Liv.”
“What ‘more’?” I ask against my better judgment. I want to know.
“Will it make a difference?”
“Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
