Page 35 of Control (Everyday Heroes 3.50)
“That has to be a hard adjustment.”
He nods. “It is. And I also know that if I don’t help, you’ll have another excuse why you can’t show up to class on Thursday.”
My shoulders sag as irritation flames. “I should have known.” I reach my hand out to try and get the tools back. I don’t need this shit. “Reznor—”
“You need to be in class. Right? You paid, so why aren’t you showing up?” He pulls the screwdriver out of my reach and stares at me. “I’ve seen your instructor and he’s pretty kick ass...it wouldn’t be him you’re trying to avoid now, would it?”
Screw this. I reach for the screwdriver again and he pulls it back. “Give it to me!” I demand.
“Not until you give me an answer.” His smile taunts me. “Why aren’t you showing up to class?”
“Because I don’t like you.” I narrow my eyes and try to use my frustration to sell the lie, because my problem is it’s quite the contrary.
“Ehh,” he says like a buzzer sound. “Try again.”
“You’re being childish.”
“And you’re not telling the truth.”
I grit my teeth because what does he want me to tell him? That I think about him way too much when I’m not a woman who pines for a man? That I find myself wanting to walk next door to talk to him on the odd occasion that I see him outside? Odd occasion? Who am I fooling? I hear any noise from outside and I go to see if it’s him. That I turned down a very viable hot night out with a guy because he wasn’t him?
This is why I can’t do this. Why I can’t do him. I let my irritation with myself push me toward anger.
“Give me the screwdriver,” I ask as I lunge at him, only to find myself flush against his chest, and his lips on mine.
I don’t know who made the move, who I can blame later, but the kiss is instant and savage and laced with hunger and anger and every ounce of desperation I’ve felt over the past few days.
I take from him as much as he does from me. It’s full of heat just as quickly as I realize I’m kissing him when I told myself I can’t have him—that I can’t set myself up for the devastation that comes with a guy like him. I push against his chest and tear my mouth from his.
I’m up on my feet in an instant, the word “Shit” a pant on my lips as I move as far away from him as I can in a space—my space—that seems completely consumed by him.
“Mind telling me why you’re so mad at me?” His voice is right behind me—close, too close—and it’s not enough that I smell his shampoo and soap and his taste is still on my tongue. He’s owning my thoughts.
“Because I like you,” I grit out. His laugh in response makes me clench my teeth tighter.
“I thought that would be a good thing, but I think I’m missing the whole estrogen-infused part of this conversation.”
I hear his sarcasm and latch on to it, using it to fuel my anger when it’s not his fault in the first place. “I don’t want to like you.”
His sigh is the only sound that accompanies the staccato of my heartbeat whooshing through my ears. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
I whirl around and face him. His hips are leaning against my counter, his arms are folded across his chest, my dogs are sitting at his feet, and even though there is sarcasm tingeing every single word he says, there is patience in his eyes when I don’t want there to be.
“Because this is how it happens for me, Reznor.” I throw my hands up. “I start out not liking someone even though I think they’re hot. Then I start to like them. I sleep with them a few times. I’m having fun. I’m not thinking about church bells—God, no. But then they say they want more. I say I don’t want more. And in the blink of an eye, all the great sex we had turns awkward because regardless of what anyone says, monogamy is hard for people when it’s casual. They expect to have to work for it. Working for it makes them feel like they deserve more out of it than incredible orgasms. And by then I’m exhausted, the fights become real, and every sign of affection is second-guessed to the point of mind-fucking it...and if I’m going to be fucking something, I sure as hell want some pleasure out of it.” I suck in a huge breath when I finish rambling, only to find Reznor staring at me—eyes wide, brow narrowed, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to fight a smile.
“Jesus.” He coughs the word out through a laugh. “And they say I’m the one who needs to go to therapy.”
I should be offended, but I’m already on the defensive enough that his comment hits deaf ears. “You and me both, buddy,” I mutter, wondering why I’m so heated about this. Why I’m fighting this.
It’s because you really like him.
“Why?” he asks.
“Why what?”
“Just why? Why is this your position, and if it’s your position, then why does it feel like you’re digging your heels in to prove to yourself that it’s valid?”
Everything about him right now calls to me. His patience. His calm demeanor when I just went off on him. The dark shadow the light casts over his face when I don’t want to notice how gorgeous his eyes are or how sexy his lips look surrounded by the stubble he’s let grow.
