Page 62 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
"How long since you looked at me?" he asked.
His voice low and raspy from the alcohol.
I stayed quiet.
"Every time I come," he said, "you don't look. Just lie there, staring up. I call you, no answer. I talk, you ignore. I stand here like a fucking idiot."
He let go.
"What do you want from me?"
I lookedat his face.
It was more worn than six months ago. Dark circles, brow furrows, lips tight.
"What do I want from you?" I said.
He blinked.
My voice soft. "I want my kid back. Want that woman out. Want you to—"
"Enough."
He cut me off.
"I know you hate me."
I laughed a little, met his eyes.
He watched me.
Just like that, through the dark, the booze stink, the six months. Fog still in his eyes, but something behind it—I saw it, didn't know what, didn't want to.
"Then what?" I said. "Want me to say I hate you? Then what?"
His brows twitched. He opened his mouth—I didn't know what he'd say, probably didn't either. Silence dropped between us, heavy with booze, with six months.
Then he leaned down and kissed me.
I didn't move. Just ached inside, numb.
Booze hit me, lip heat hit me, his hand braced on the pillow by my face, weight pressing. Something in my body started loosening—that familiar, stupid loosening. I hated it, but couldn't stop it.
I didn't move. Didn't kiss back.
He pulled back, looked up.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Whatever," I said.
"What?"
"Do it if you want." I looked at him. "The contract doesn't say I can refuse you."
His eyes changed.
Fog cleared fast, replaced by something hotter, sharper. He stared, something burning in those eyes.
