Page 25 of Hold You Close
I reach beneath his shirt and run my hands up his rippling abs and sculpted chest. His bare skin is hot and smooth under my palms. His mouth travels down one side of my throat, his tongue warm and wet. He pulls me away from the fridge, slips his hands beneath my thighs and lifts me up so that my legs are wrapped around his waist.
Inside my head is a dizzying refrain. He wants me, he wants me, he wants me.
The mental victory feels as good as his body against mine. I take his face in my hands, his scruffy jaw rough against my fingers, and our mouths coming together again. He turns and sets me on the kitchen counter and the kiss grows deeper and more feverish, until all of a sudden he grabs me by the wrists, forcing my hands off him.
“Enough,” he says, breathing hard. “Enough. You drive me fucking crazy, London. And I don’t know what kind of games you’re playing tonight, but I’m not interested.”
And just like that, my self-esteem is crushed by his callousness—again.
“You’re one to talk about games,” I snap, yanking my arms from his grip. “How about the way you played me in the past?”
He steps back, runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, that was almost twenty fucking years ago. We were kids.”
“So what? I believed everything you said that night. I gave you my virginity. And it was all
just a lark for you!”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“What else was I supposed to think? One night you say you’re all mine, the next night you were with somebody else. I saw you, remember?”
He says nothing. Doesn't move a muscle.
“You never even said you were sorry,” I inform him.
He points at me. “You think you’re so smart. You think you know everything. Well, you don’t.”
“I know I should have stayed away from you.”
“That, sweetheart, is a lesson we’ve both learned.” Turning away from me, he opens the fridge and stares into it. The milk is right there in front of his face, but apparently he can’t see it.
Sliding off the counter, I shoulder him aside and grab the plastic half-gallon of skim myself. Then I shut the door and slam the milk onto the counter like a gavel. “Here. Take it.”
Expecting him to leave now that he has what he wants, I’m surprised when he keeps standing there.
“What?” I ask flatly. “Surely you don’t need my help pouring a glass of milk. You want to play the hero, Ian, go play him. I know how you love the role.”
He grasps the handle of the half-gallon, but he doesn’t pick it up. “She’s going to want you.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “And?”
“And . . .” He doesn’t look at me as he considers his words. “And I think you should come back to the house.”
God, he was so damn stubborn. Why couldn’t he just admit that he needed me as much as the kids did? Why couldn’t he be straight with me for once, and not give me that cocky asshole façade? Why couldn’t he see that all I wanted was a little fucking sincerity from him? I shake my head. “Not good enough.”
He glares at me. “Fuck you.” Then he swings the milk off the counter and storms out the back door, slamming it behind him.
Six
London
I must’ve lost my freaking mind.
That’s the only explanation I can come up with for what just happened. I might have some sort of disease that destroys common sense and logic. Nothing else makes sense as to why I kissed him like that, let him kiss me, and somehow expected something other than exactly what I got. I’m still standing alone in my kitchen trying to process everything that just happened when I hear three loud knuckle-raps on the glass.
I freeze, take a deep breath, and head to the door. It’s him, of course. “So you knock now?”
His jaw is tight. “Please come back to the house.”
