Page 106 of The Ache That Stayed

I’d even pretended to be asleep, just to see if she’d pull away. I was starving for proof she wanted me, even unconsciously. And when her breath fanned across my lips—it hit like a live wire straight down my spine, to my cock.

And then she pulled away. Almost falling on her ass. Like none of it had happened. Like I hadn’t happened.

And when she bent to pull her jeans on—

Minchia!

I stayed exactly where I was, eyes glued to her. To that ass.

Curved. Full. Made to be held—gripped—owned.

Every filthy thought hit at once. Dragging her back, sinking my teeth into them. Forcing her onto all fours before I sank into her again and again—until she forgot why she was angry in the first place. Forgot how to think. How to stand. How to be anything except mine. Until the only name that would spill from that smart mouth of hers was mine.

My jaw clenched. Hard. Because just minutes ago, I’d been holding her like she was made of glass. And now the monster in me wanted to ruin her.

And I didn’t even look away when she caught me staring. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t want to.

I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down my face. One kiss and she’d avoided me for four straight days. A mirthless huff left my chest. If I’d done anything more…

Christ.

This woman was going to be the death of me.

Everything led back to the kiss. I was in a constant state of arousal around her—tight, coiled, borderline painful. Like my own body had turned against me.

And worse, I noticed everything, cataloguing her without meaning to. The flick of her tongue, the tilt of her head. The absentminded things she never noticed. Every glance, every sound, every move she made now carried the echo of that kiss.

My body was a live wire, my mind a prison.

My brain had become a fucking surveillance system, programmed to track her. The way she licked the spoon absentmindedly while tasting something—slow, distracted, like she didn’t realise what she was doing. Holding a pen between her lips when she was thinking—brows drawn, lost in her work, completely oblivious of how obscene it looked.

And when she bent over in those godforsaken shorts while loading the dishwasher—

Fuck my life.

Like she wasn’t single-handedly testing the last shred of restraint I had left. Pure torture.

And every single time, my thoughts went somewhere darker. Somewhere I shouldn’t let them go. Didn’t matter how many times I told myself to look away. Didn’t matter how many times I tried to shut it down.

If anything, knowing what she felt, what she tasted like, only made it worse. Because now memory had something to work with.

This wasn’t just attraction anymore. Attraction would’ve been easier. It was a compulsion. An addiction. And the sick bastard in me had no desire to quit. It sat in my chest like a loaded gun, waiting for her to pull the trigger.

I needed to talk to her. Get it out. End whatever this was before it consumed me completely. And when she would shut me down, because she would—maybe I’d finally be able to breathe again. Maybe then I’d stop obsessing.

But I knew better. I’d just find new ways to torture myself, because I’m a glutton for pain—and she’s the sharpest blade I’ve ever held.

A bitter truth followed.

Who the fuck was I kidding?

I wasn’t getting over her. Not now. Not ever.

I’d just have to learn how to live with it. This slow, deliberate kind of torture. And God help me—I’d probably welcome it.

Then there was the other thing between us. The nightmare. The way she’d looked at me. Or rather… hadn’t. Those empty eyes. Like I was holding a body with no one inside it. That image refused to leave me. It gutted me, because I wanted to drag her back, wanted to force her to see me, even if it meant breaking her more.

Her demons didn’t appear out of thin air. Someone had put them there. And I intended to find out who the fuck gave them to her.