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His palm is so big, he grazes my upper thigh as he cleans the wound.
He never looks into my eyes. It’s like he refuses to see me. See me for the woman I am. Not the miserable reminder of what his father did to him. Did to both of us, really.
I’m torn about how this new situation makes me feel.
Part happy. Part relieved.
But a bigger, hungrier part is desperate for him.
I feel so much right now.
Lust. Desire. Need.
I need to see the look that is reflected in his eyes. To see if he feels it, too.
Has this all been a figment in my mind?
No. This has to be a two-way street of excitement. The way he swallows when I’m close. The way his gaze follows mine, and just now his touch . . .
I’m not making this up.
There must be something he feels for me besides this hatred.
Something is there. I’m sure of it.
It lingers beneath the surface, but I sense it in every look.
It’s the same way I think I must look at him. Confused. But still with desire. Conflicting emotions. But that’s okay.
People can feel two different things.
They can be two different people, too.
Desire and hate can coexist.
Just like Trent can be an asshole, yet . . . he’s not.
His actions are never black and white. There are shades of gray in every move he makes.
The way he treats me is in complete contrast to the Trent who volunteers at Cresthill.
It’s like his father.
Good and evil.
Trent’s touches have me looking back down. His forearms flex as his large hands clean and remove the rag.
What will he do next?
I think my heart might beat out of my chest as he leans in and gently blows on my skin.
“W-what are you doing?” I finally croak out.
“Drying it,” he grits through clenched teeth as he works.
Everything inside me feels warm and tingly.
His hand creeps higher. His fingers bracket my thigh.
