Page 27 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Yes.” He shoves his hand through his hair again and steps up to where I stand. “Fuck yes, you do.”
“You’re making absolutely no sense. You don’t even know me. What am I to you?” I throw my hands up, exasperated at the language gap between male and female.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Screw you.” Hurt rifles through me. He’s perfectly accurate and just made the point I was making myself, and yet hearing him say it with disassociation in his tone and indifference in his body language stings. My own insecurities rear their ugly head again as everything becomes crystal clear to me.
“Exactly.” He chuckles a low and self-deprecating laugh and I’m so lost in my own confusion that I don’t really hear it, comprehend what he’s saying, because I’m already trying to piece together my next words.
/> “You’ve lost me, Zander. You can’t have it both ways. You can’t tell Darcy I’m roommate material because obviously you have zero interest in me—shit, just by watching you tonight with all of the women hanging on your every word, I know I’m definitely not your type—and then at the same time be mad I’m here because I complicate things. So sorry my presence makes it harder for you to bring your just-for-the-nights back to the house when I’m there and the walls are paper-thin and you know you can’t have sex on the kitchen counter because I might walk in on you. You poor, deprived baby.”
I’m out of breath, and anger and rejection are roaring through my blood as he stares at me, eyes wide, lips lax, head shaking slowly back and forth as he digests what I’ve just said. As he realizes I’m an intelligent woman who has his entire game figured out.
“You’re certifiable, you know that?” He takes a step toward me, a smile slowly spreading across his lips. And I hate that he’s mocking me, despise that he’s secretly laughing at me. “That’s a great scenario you’ve conjured up in that female mind of yours, but I hate to tell you, you’re way off base.”
“Really? I’m off base? Why’d you tell Darcy you want to live with me?” My hands are on my hips; my tone demands a no-bullshit answer.
“Because I want to.”
It’s my turn to laugh and roll my eyes. I don’t know what kind of game he’s playing, but I’m over it. Over him and his back-and-forth and making no sense. “You want to and yet I complicate things.”
“Yep.” He nods slowly.
“That’s all you’re going to give me?”
That chuckle again. The one that tells me there is so much more behind it than humor and yet I wish I understood why.
“No. Yes. Fuck.” He scrubs a hand over his face and for once I notice he seems uncomfortable and unsure of himself.
“That’s very decisive,” I mock.
“You complicate things, Getty,” he murmurs as he steps into my personal space so that I can clearly see the look in his eyes even in the dimly lit room. And this time when our eyes meet, the amusement has been replaced with an intensity that I didn’t expect. “Because there is something about you that continually reminds me why I came here. I don’t know why you’re here and you don’t know why I’m here . . . and yet for some reason every time I look at you, I know I need to stay when all I want to do is run again.”
His explanation blindsides me. The intensity in his eyes now makes perfect sense. I expected some smart-ass answer, some flippant response to skirt the issue and make the situation go away, and yet he did the exact opposite. And now I don’t know how to respond.
“The other morning,” he continues before I can speak, the tension back in his shoulders, “it wasn’t you or your pictures or, fuck . . . Never mind.” He lifts a hand to the back of his neck and pulls down on it as he tilts his head to the ceiling. His audible exhalation fills the room.
“No. Don’t never mind me. Make me understand.”
He slowly brings his chin back down as he takes a step closer to me. “You really want to know why I walked out the other morning?”
His close proximity and the look in his eyes make it difficult for me to think clearly. “Yes.” I can barely hear my own voice.
“This,” he says as he reaches out and puts a hand on the back of my neck. Alarm bells sound in my head and all I can think about is how I want to be running into the fire it’s warning of right now, instead of racing to safety. I can feel his breath on my lips, feel the intention in his touch. “I. Wanted. To. Do. This.”
Within a breath, Zander’s lips are on mine. My head reels as the rush hits me. Heat and warmth and hunger and desire drown me in its libidinous haze as my startled gasp parts my lips, allowing him to slip his tongue between them to dance with mine. He tastes like beer and mint and lust all in one and my head is swimming and heart is pumping and holy shit, he’s kissing me. Tempting me. Awakening me.
It takes me a second to clear the shock from my mind, because I’m stunned motionless, understandably, but when one of his hands moves to hold my jaw still and the other to cup the back of my head, reality hits. His groan fills my ears, low and throaty, and the sound spurs me on. Tells me this is real. My fingers are timid against his chest. My lips move with his, tongue teasing and skin burning for more of his touch. My body switching gears from angered frustration to unexpected desire.
And you’d think that after being with Ethan for so many years, I’d have to remind myself that Zander isn’t him, but there’s no need for that. No way. Because in the few seconds since Zander’s lips have slanted over mine, there’s been more heat, more want, than Ethan ever made me feel.
It’s possibly due to the fact that he’s forbidden. That I know having a man in my life is out of the picture right now. A complication I don’t need. But hell if forbidden doesn’t taste so damn good.
And just as I start to sink into the kiss, a moan on my lips, he abruptly pushes away from me with a measured mixture of aggression and regret.
“Goddammit!” he swears as he scrunches his eyes tight while I’m left with my lips swollen and all the parts of my body still tingling from his kiss. “I was fucking right,” he mutters more to himself than to me as he starts to move again, pace the small confines of the room, an uncharacteristic nervous energy about him.
And I don’t know what to do. Whether I should go, slip out while he does whatever he’s doing, or stay here and silently attempt to recover from what just happened. I choose to stay put because my knees are too wobbly to walk just yet.
