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“It’s a little late for that,” he says in my ear, confirming my suspicions. “It’s going to take more than a simple apology to make it up to me.” His mouth slides around to the back of my neck. “A lot more.”
And then, just like that, everything stops. As suddenly as it started, it’s over and he’s walking away from me. “I’m meeting Conner later,” he calls over his shoulder like the last three minutes never happened. He strolls down the hall, disappearing into the bathroom, leaving me stunned and shaking in the middle of the kitchen.
Twenty-three
Cari
He’s obviously pissedand if there’s anything I’ve learned in our three years of friendship it’s that a pissed off Gilroy is not a thing to be messed with. I should just walk away. From him. From this whole mess. Last night, I said I was moving out—another stupid, impulsive mistake—but standing here, strung out from the feel of him all over me—inside me—it seems like the only sane thing to do. I should just leave. What I did was horrible and cruel but he got his revenge. That made us even.
But I don’t want to be even and I can’t walk away. Not from this.
Not from him.
I stand in the middle of our tiny kitchen for a few moments, waiting for my legs to stop shaking and then I go after him, barging into our shared bathroom, the door rebounding off the sink so hard it slammed shut again.
“Wow,” he says, his voice bouncing off the shower stall walls. “You’ve developed a habit of walking in on me while I’m jerking off.”
His taunt should shame me but it doesn’t. It just makes me angry. And the anger makes me reckless. “You can’t just do that, Patrick,” I yell at the shower curtain.
“I can’t hear you,” he shouts over the sound of the shower. I’m not sure but I think he’s laughing at me.
Incensed, I rip the shower curtain open. “I said—” I’m still yelling but I’m unprepared for the sight of a fully naked and very wet Patrick and I almost swallow my tongue. Jesus, he’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes you feel a little desperate. Like you can’t even hope to measure up. Like you’d be willing to do just about anything to prove that you do.
“You can’t...” I take a deep breath and try again. “You can’t do that to people.”
Despite what he said to me, he’s washing his hair, water and soap runs down his chest. Slushes off tightly packed abs. Splits around the base of his thick, hard cock to coast down long, muscular legs...
I’m trying not to look but seriously?
“Hello... my eyes are up here, Cari.” This time I’m sure he’s laughing at me. I can hear it in his voice.
Mortified, I force my eyes back to his face.
He finishes rinsing his hair and drops his hands. “Do what?” He’s using it again. That calm, reasonable tone that makes me crazy. He’s looking at me like I am crazy.
“You know what.” I say it through clenched teeth, my cheeks hot.
He’s not laughing anymore. “Oh... you mean tease you?” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a grin that’s totally void of humor. “Touch you.” His hand slides down his well-defined chest, taking my gaze with it, to wrap around his cock. “Make you wet...” He starts to work his hand in a slow, even rhythm, gripping the head before sliding his fist all the way to its base. “Make you want things... and then just walk away.”
That’s exactly what I’d been doing to him for months now. Hearing him say it jerks the indignation right out of me. “You’re right.” I manage to push the words out against a throat that suddenly feels like it’s full of sand. I lick my lips, trying to find my voice. “What I did what shitty and I’m sorr—”
“Stop. Apologizing.” He bites the demand in half, his reasonable tone taking on a dangerous edge.
“Then what?” I whisper, my throat horse, eyes glued to his hand, watching him. “What do you want from me?”
He doesn’t answer me, just throws me a question of his own. “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about you while doing this?” Something about his voice pulls my gaze back to his face and I find him watching me, his hooded, green stare nailed to my mouth. “You, in that goddamned robe...” His voice is thick, chest pumping, quick and hard. “That fucking dress...” His hand is still moving, flexing and sliding around his cock while his gaze dips to my breasts, their tight, swollen tips pushing against the thin cotton of my T-shirt.
That’s the last coherent thought I have. Before I can think about what I’m doing and why, I grip the hem of my shirt and drag it over my head, exposing myself to him.
I cup one of my breasts, rolling and pinching its nipple between my fingers, the sensation of my hand and his eyes on me, watching me touch myself, slams into my gut with the force of a freefall.
Catching my bottom lip between my teeth, I slide my other hand beneath the waistband of my boxers. “I’m guessing you’ve thought about me as much as I’ve thought about you...” that last word gets caught in my throat as I skim my fingers along the seam of my pussy, pushing inside just enough to get them wet—mimicking what he’d done to me in the kitchen. He’s watching me, his own hand gone still and fallen to his side.
I stop touching myself too. “To be honest, it feels better when you do it,” I say, holding his stare for a few seconds before I turn and walk out.
I barely get the door open before I hear him behind me, ripping the shower curtain off the wall, scrambling across the slick tile floor of the bathroom, careened after me.
Thank god.