Page 51

The mention of Molly sobers me considerably. I grew up watching my dad stumble and puke his way from one binge to the next. The thought of Molly seeing me like this bothers me more than it has a right to. “Understood.”
Grace drops the trash can on the floor next to the bed and offers me the water. “You’ll wake up dehydrated if you don’t drink it,” she says when I don’t immediately reach out to take it.
Even though I don’t particularly want it, I struggle to sit up, raising myself up on a wobbly elbow to take the glass. As soon as her hand is empty she holds it up to my mouth. “Ibuprofen,” she says, flashing me a pair of reddish-brown pills tucked into her palm. “Open up.” When I do what she says, she drops the pills into my mouth and takes a step back, waiting for me to drain the glass.
When it’s empty, I set it on the nightstand before letting my elbow collapse under my dead, drunk weight. Flat on my back, I train my gaze on the ceiling again “Thanks, Grace.” It’s a stupid thing to say. The soft scoff she gives me in response says she agrees with me.
“I’ll try to keep Molly from bothering you but she’s an early riser and I don’t always—”
I turn my head to pin her with a glare. “Molly doesn’t bother me.” It irritates me that she would think that. “She’s never bothered me.”
“Oh… right.” She swallows hard and averts her gaze. “I keep forgetting—it’s just me that bothers you,” she says, making a sound in the back of her throat while she nods her head and moves toward the door. Away from me. “I have an appointment in—”
Let her go.
Let her go.
Let her go.
Fuck.
I reach out and snag her hand, jerking her to a stop before she can get away. “You do bother me, Grace.” I say it quietly, my voice barely held above a whisper. Giving in a little, I sweep the rough pad of my thumb against the inside of her wrist. “You bother me so goddamned much, you’re all I can think about.”
“Ryan...” She whispers my name, soft and breathless, face turned away like she’s afraid to look at me. “Please—”
“I dream about you.” I cut her off because I’m afraid too. Of what she’s about to say. That she’s going to tell me to stop.
Stop talking.
Stop touching her.
Afraid, because I can’t.
I couldn’t stop now, even if I wanted to.
“I dream about fucking your wet, swollen pussy with my fingers. Your hot, needy mouth with my tongue.” I shouldn’t tell her that. I shouldn’t touch her. But I keep talking. Keep drawing slow, lazy circles against the soft skin of her wrist. Stirring the blood pulsing through her veins until I can feel the fast, heavy thump of it against my thumb because I need to feel it—her pulse stutter and stall under my hand. Hear her breath catch and snag in her throat. I need to know she wants me as much as I want her. That I can do that to her. Make her feel that way, even if I can’t don’t fuck all about it.
It’s messed up and wrong, doing this to her but I can’t help it. Right now, I want her too much to care.
“Every night it’s the same. Every morning I wake up and I’d swear to Christ you’ve been right there with me because I can still smell you on my skin and taste you on my tongue. I can still feel how tight your pussy is, wrapped around my fingers, and it’s driving me fucking crazy.”
It’s all true, every bit of it—up to and including the fact that I’ve lost my goddamned mind. My little X-rated monologue pretty much proves it and I half expect her to yank herself out of my grasp. To get up get the hell out. A part of me wishes she would. It would make things easier. Simpler if she were afraid of me. Simpler if she’d just decide to hate me.
Instead, she turns towards the bed to look down at me, her wrist still trapped in the circle of my fingers.
“You’re confusing me.” She whispers, cutting me off at the knees with a single sentence. “You need to make up your mind. Decide what you want, because you can’t keep doing this to me. Pulling me in, just to push me away. It’s not fair.”
She’s right.
It’s not fair.
Not to either of us.
But she’s wrong about one thing.
I don’t need to decide anything.
I decided the second I saw her.