Page 41 of The Downside of Love
Tiptoeing to her bed, I avoid looking at her to alleviate some of the guilt, and switch off her light. On my way back to my bed, her comforter rustles and I hear the faint sound of her voice. “Stryder?”
I pause, eyes shut, wishing I were anywhere but here right now.
“Yeah, it’s me. Go back to sleep.”
Instead—because this is Rory—she sits up in bed and rubs her eyes. “Where were you?”
“Walking.”
“Without shoes on?”
At the time it didn’t bother me. I felt numb to the world, but now I can feel the impact on my feet. They’re sore as shit.
“Yeah, no biggie. Go back to bed. Did you set an alarm for tomorrow morning?”
She rubs her eyes some more and scoots back against her headboard. “Come here.”
“Rory, just go to bed. No need to talk this out.”
“No,” she says firmly, looking more awake. “I was worried about you, and I deserve the right to talk to you. You can’t just slink off and not come back for hours.”
Feeling like the bastard that I am, I say, “I’m a grown man, Rory. I can do whatever the hell I want.”
Regret consumes me the minute the words leave my mouth, and an audible gasp escapes past her heart-shaped lips. She doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment, and yet I can’t stop myself from being a dick. This is why I didn’t want to come back right away, and even after a few hours trying to walk off my anger and pain, I’m still a fucking prick.
I scratch the side of my jaw and say, “Listen, I’m not in a good head space right now. Anything I say to you I’m going to regret. Just let me sleep it off, okay?”
She’s silent for a moment before tearing the covers off her bed and walking past me, her shoulder brushing mine until she’s in the bathroom, the door shutting harder than I expected.
I run my hands down my face and mutter, “Fuck.”
I hate everything about me right now. I hate that I hurt her, that she has to deal with my mood swings, that she’s taking the brunt of it. I consider going to Ryan’s house, not caring if she has a guy over when the toilet flushes, water runs, and then the door flies open, an angry Rory standing in the door frame.
“You’re a dick, Stryder.”
“I know,” I answer without hesitation.
“I care about you. Why can’t you accept that?”
My eyes travel up and down her body, taking in the way her little hands clench at her sides, anger ready to strike any minute from the whip of her tongue. “You’re wasting your time, Rory.”
Shaking my head, I walk toward my bed when she stops me, hand pressed against my bare chest, her eyes widening under the moonlight as she scans my torso, from my thick pecs to my carved six-pack, flexing uncontrollably at her touch.
Heat consumes me, desire ripping through me, the need to pull her against my chest taking over my entire body.
Everything pauses around us, both our breaths labored, our eyes bouncing back and forth, anger brewing, need consuming me.
I want her.
I want to claim her.
I want to make her mine.
Just a few inches, one swipe of my arm around her waist and she’s mine.
Do it.
Fucking take what you want.
