Page 66 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

Chapter Twenty-Four

He licked my blood.

Off my thighs, I mean. That night. I remember that.

I remember everything, but something about that still makes me shiver.

Probably because it was so primal, him cleaning my blood, licking it off, scraping it off with his teeth because it had dried on my skin.

Or maybe it was the fact that he was on his knees.

Beside the bed. He also had a warm washcloth in his hand meant to clean me between my thighs.

But then he saw all that blood and decided to put his mouth on me.

His hot, wet mouth, and cleaned me like an animal would.

I remember thinking it felt like he was worshipping me.

Like I was a goddess or an angel and he was so overcome by the sight of me, he fell to his knees and decided to pray to me with his lips and tongue.

I also remember climaxing one more time against his tongue.

I wish I remembered what it felt like, his mouth on such an intimate place, but I was so tired. So out of it.

The only thing I remembered to do was ask him to promise me he wouldn’t go after his father after my baseball bat story.

I was right when I said he’d taken so much of the man I love that he shouldn’t get any more.

I also wanted to ask him to come to bed.

To sleep with me, in my arms, because he’d had a rough night, after how his defenses came down for a bit.

He had to have been emotionally and physically wrung out.

So I wanted him to put his face on my chest so I could hold him tight, help him unwind.

Help him focus away from the pain. Like he always wanted me to.

Be his distraction.

But I’d been too emotionally and physically wrung out too, so I guess I fell asleep and woke up way later than I’d planned.

I’d wanted to see him off, wish him luck for the season, maybe also have breakfast together, but he’d already left by the time I opened my eyes.

So I sent him a text, apologizing for oversleeping and to tell him good luck.

And that was it. That was probably the last time I felt any tender emotion for him.

Right now, all I feel is immense anger.

I’m so fucking angry I could break something.

I could break this fucking dish in my hand, the one I’m trying to wash at the sink; I’m still not used to the dishwasher.

I could break my phone that’s sitting on the counter, that I keep checking every five minutes to see if I missed a notification.

I did not. And rationally, I know that. Because my phone is on loud and I’ve been getting texts and calls all day long.

For two whole days, in fact, without any issues.

So it’s not my phone. It’s him.

He’s the problem. My toxic asshole stepbrother .

Who hasn’t replied to my texts or picked up my calls.

And it’s so unlike him to not reply to me.

I mean, he gets back to me the moment I send him something, anything .

He gets back to me before I put my phone away after sending him a text, thinking it’d be a while before I’d hear from him.

I also know he’s communicating fine with others. Namely, Snow. So yes, it’s not my phone, it’s him.

I mean, for him to treat me like this. Like I’m some clingy jealous girlfriend type…

Okay, so maybe I am. I do get jealous, and well, I’ve been obsessed with him for years so it’s safe to say I’m clingy.

But I also understand that I’m not his girlfriend.

I realize this is not a relationship. Or at least a traditional one, where we go on dates and hang out together.

First, we can’t because of all the complications.

We have to hide and sneak around, which I didn’t want to do in the first place, but it’s fine.

I’ll make my peace with it. And second, I know he doesn’t want that anyway.

He doesn’t want a traditional relationship.

I know that. I know he loves someone else and that he still is in love with her.

That’s the whole point of this, right? The whole point has always been that he can’t move on, and he needs me for that.

So I get it.

But that doesn’t mean he gets to make me feel like this.

Rejected and ignored. Especially when we’ve been through so much together.

Especially when we’ve come so far. Especially when I saw him that night.

I saw him crack. I saw the inside of his soul, his heart, and fell in love with him even more.

Fell in love with the man who makes life easy for everyone but himself.

Who’s so loveable and loyal that I could fall in love with him not only in this lifetime but beyond.

Not to mention, I know there’s no way he’s feeling good about this.

In fact, I think he’s probably feeling pretty shitty about ignoring me for whatever goddamn reason he is.

I know he’s obsessed with me. I know he’s over the top insane for me.

He’s the man who remembered the exact spot I spoke to him for the first time and took me to that very spot to take my virginity.

You know what though, it’s not my problem.

It’s not my job to coddle him and make him feel better when he’s the one who’s doing all this.

So he can go to hell. In fact, I’m going to block him on my phone.

Let’s see how it feels when he’s the one getting ignored.

I quickly finish washing the dish and set it on the drying rack.

I pick up my phone and bring up his number, and with another click, block him. There. Take that, asshole.

I’m gloating—while also feeling angry and sad and everything else in between—when I hear the front door open.

Frowning, I put my phone down on the counter and walk out of the kitchen, wondering if Snow is back.

She’s spending the night at Tempest’s—as she has done many times before—because Tempest hates it when Ledger is traveling for the season.

And since Snow is still going stir crazy at home, she volunteered to go.

But she’d call before coming back so it doesn’t…

I come to a halt when I reach the hallway, because it’s not my sister.

It’s him. The man I’m mad at.

He stands just inside the door, his eyes locked with mine.

Dark and flashing. His hair’s the first thing I notice about him, which is a wonder because there’s so much going on with him that deserves my attention.

But I start with his hair, all mussed up and falling on his forehead but not in a typical way.

His hair looks… agitated. Like he’s been running his fingers through the strands, causing them to fall all over the place.

And then my eyes take in his features, which look even sharper somehow.

The hollows of his cheeks are deeper. There are pits under his eyes, even, like he hasn’t slept ever since he left two days ago.

He hasn’t probably shaved either, because his stubble looks thicker than ever.

Although I know that can’t be true, the shaving part, because I saw his game this morning and he looked like he usually does.

Like a soccer superstar, confident and cocky, although slightly more rigid than usual.

In any case, it seems like whatever has happened, whatever is making his chest go up and down wildly, has happened in the last however many hours.

Even his clothes, his black t-shirt and his washed-out jeans, all wrinkled now, bear the brunt of whatever it is he’s going through.

And for a few seconds as we stand here, staring at each other across the space, my heart squeezes so tightly for him that I want to fly across and throw myself into his arms. But then I notice something else. Something… bizarre.

Flowers.

A bouquet of red and purple flowers—roses, tulips, maybe even lilies?—in his hand. They look slightly torn and droopy, like he’s been carrying them for some time now. Across hundreds of miles even. For me.

They are, aren’t they? He brought me flowers for ignoring me, for making me feel all kinds of shitty and that…

makes me so angry, so fucking angry, that I fist my hands at my sides.

It makes me clench my teeth. Does he really think I’m going to forgive him just because he brought me flowers?

Like I’m some… Well, I don’t know who or what he thinks I am but I’m definitely not going to melt and swoon at his feet just because he got me a pretty bouquet for fucking things up.

Even though I do have that urge too because damn it , no one has ever given me any flowers.

And I bet he hasn’t given flowers to anyone else either.

Not even to her. I don’t know how I know this, but I do.

He notices the change in my demeanor at the sight of his offering and opens his mouth to say something while stepping forward, but I’m faster than him.

I whirl around and start running. I don’t even stop to think it through, I simply take off down the hallway and get away from him.

I hear the front door slamming shut and his muttered curse, but I don’t stop.

I don’t even stop when I hear his footsteps chasing after me and he calls out, “Just, fuck, wait. Baby, I...”

Baby? Seriously? I’m not his fucking baby.

I dash to my room—his room, technically—enter and slam the door shut. I turn the lock just as he reaches and bangs on it. “Open the door, Strawberry.”

Oh, fuck him ! Is he really going to call me by that name? All because I told him the other night I hated it when he called me by my name that night at the club. Does he really think it’s going to melt me?

Well, no, it’s not. I won’t let it. So I step back from the door and keep stepping back, lest I get the urge to open it. “No.”

“Just, please, all right? Just open the door and let me explain,” he calls out, still banging on it.