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“So, she’s in your arms. Did it seem like she was trying to escalate things?”
Suddenly, I don’t want to troubleshoot this problem with him anymore. Running through the play-by-play of my time with Kennedy so he can figure out what I did wrong is not something I need or want, but my silence seems to answer his question, and there’s no denying his protective instincts this time; he gets pissed.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he demands. “Every time I bring her forward a couple of steps, you push her back.”
“I didnotpush her back.”
“Maybe not physically, but she felt like you were rejecting her and pushing her away. She can’t handle that. I fucking told you she couldn’t deal with your relationship drama.”
“I didn’t—”
He doesn’t let me finish.
He pushes back his seat and stands. “You know what? I’m gonna make it real fucking easy for you. Ilikeplaying with Kennedy. And I’ve only played with her during the worst shit of her life, so I can onlyimaginehow fun she can be when she has her head on right. If you keep holding onto this stubborn bullshit and doing more damage to her every time I make progress, I’m gonna stop playing nice. I’ve been respectful up to this point. I’ve been operating under the understanding that she belongs to you.”
I meet his gaze with a hard one of my own as he stops in front of me, squaring up like he’s about to throw a punch.
Then he does—a verbal hook with a surprising amount of violence behind it. “We may not be in love right now, but that could change. Trauma bonds people, and I can give herexactlywhat she needs in bed. A skill like that can go a long fucking way in making a girl crave you.” He looks me up and down with a smirk that makes me want to knock his ass out, then looks me dead in the eye and says, “You may be the one she loves right now, but I haven’t tried to change her mind yet. You better take ownership of that pussy, or I fucking will.”
Chapter twenty-six
Kennedy
Normally, when Milo comes into the bedroom right now, he moves quietly so as not to wake me up.
He must be preoccupied today because when he comes in this morning—is it still morning?—he’s not quiet at all. I don’t think he means to wake me, but he does. When I squeeze a tired eye open and peek at him, he’s not even looking at me.
He must have been working out. He’s wearing his gym clothes, and his skin is flushed, a sheen of perspiration trailing down his corded neck and disappearing into his shirt.
Yum.
I allow myself a moment to admire the view as he pulls the sweaty shirt off, flexing his muscles and making me sigh to myself. He wads the material up, then looks over at me.
I’m momentarily startled because I didn’t think he knew I was awake. He doesn’t say good morning or come give me gentle words.
Clearly, he’s still grumpy because all he says is, “Come in here.”
He sounds very no-nonsense. It jars me and I push back the blankets, following him into the bathroom.
I stop in the doorway and lean against the frame, watching him shove down his black workout pants. My gaze gets stuck on his well-sculpted ass in the black boxer-briefs he’s wearing.
“Get undressed.”
My heart stops and my gaze darts to his.
I nearly say, “Me?” but of course he means me; there’s no one else in the room.
My eyes widen, but I quickly do as I’m told. While I’m getting naked, he walks over and turns on the shower, still in his underwear.
Are we taking a shower together?
That seems to be where this is heading.
I’m not complaining, but I am confused. I don’t risk asking because what if he changes his mind?
Once I’m naked, I stand awkwardly by the shower and wait. He disappears into his closet to grab clothes, then grabs two clean towels out of the linen closet.
Once everything we need is on the counter, he shucks his underwear, opens the glass door, and steps into the shower area.
