Page 30 of Coco and the Misfits (The Candyverse #4)

ATTICUS

H er glistening pussy and thighs are covered in my cum.

That’s an image I’ll revisit in my fantasies for the rest of my life. Just thinking about it makes me hard all over again. It’s a miracle I haven’t popped a knot, I’m so damn aroused.

But then reality comes crashing down.

I’ve broken my vow to myself not to touch her, kiss her, fuck her. I said I wouldn’t, and what do I do? I fuck her against the window, with barely any foreplay, then scent mark her with my cum.

Just fucking great, Ace. You’re a genius. Delegated thinking to the small head now?

“Ace,” she whispers as I lower her to the floor. She’s flushed and smiling with post-orgasmic bliss, her legs trembling, her eyes… her eyes are the worst because they are so bright and full of hope. Hope I’m about to dash because panic is curling in my gut like a snake about to strike.

I push her back against the window and let go, even if my hands spasm with the need to keep holding onto her.

Instead, I tuck my cock inside my pants. Zip up. Avoid looking at her face like a goddamn coward. This day will go down in history as both the best and worst of my life.

I fucked up royally. How do we come back from this? How do we go back to the almost-friendship, the missed touches, the heated glances and soft words?

The answer is, we can’t.

“Ace?” Her voice is low, trembling. What she needs now, after the rough sex, is a kind word. A hug. A kiss. Aftercare. A sign of affection.

Which is why I can’t give any of that to her. This is a turning point, a point where you decide where the relationship is going, what the other person really is like.

She can’t fall in love with me. It’s time to push her away. I have nothing to offer her. This is for the best.

“Go wash up,” I say, making my voice hard. “I’ll walk you home.”

“Please, Ace.” I hear her gulp. “Don’t do this. Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Isn’t there? You want me to believe this meant nothing to you?”

I draw a breath. Then I make myself look up and say, “It meant nothing.”

“No…” She stares at me, eyes wide, face paling. “Is this… Is it about Bridget?”

“Bridget?”

“The concierge. She never liked me, and I’ve seen her gaze at you. Is there something between you two? Is this what’s happening?”

“There’s nothing between me and Bridget,” I bite out. “I didn’t even recall her name, she…” I shake my head. “Just wash up. I don’t have all night.”

She blinks. “I see.”

Does she? Can she see through me, detect the lie, the act, see what I really feel, what I really want?

And I keep pretending. I pretend not to see the two tears rolling down her cheeks, then the determined lift of her chin. The fire in her eyes as she pushes off the window and marches past me.

Heading to the bathroom.

I stuff my hands into my pants pockets, listening to the faint sounds of her washing up. No sounds of crying. No sobbing.

My heart fucking aches. She’s so strong. She will be fine. She doesn’t need me. I have to believe it.

She’s probably never coming back here, and I wouldn’t blame her. Or she will, because she needs the money, which is even worse.

How the hell do I untangle this mess I’ve created?

* * *

We usually make the short walk to her building in companionable silence as I try not to stare at her and look like a creep.

This time, the silence is like a knife between us.

She marches as fast as she can, hands clenched at her sides. She’s trying to outpace me, but of course she can’t, her legs are much shorter than mine. After a moment, I let her have that small victory anyway, slowing down, letting her overtake me.

She’s angry.

That’s good. That’s my girl. She should never take shit from anyone. She’s amazing and deserves the best. The best man. The best alpha. The best pack.

Not someone like me who has failed everyone he has ever cared about.

Too soon, her building comes into view. She stops at the entrance and turns around. Her cheeks are red, and so are her eyes. It makes me want to howl, seeing her like that.

“Listen, I don’t want…” She stops. “I can’t work for you anymore, Atticus.”

Ah. There it is. I knew it.

“I understand. I’ll find you another job,” I say gruffly. “I promise.”

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t want any more of your charity, either. I’ll find a job on my own, thank you.”

This is all my fault, but I frown because I can’t imagine not taking care of her. “I can find you a job easily. I’ll talk to the?—”

“I said, no. That’s enough.” Her voice cracks and it’s a slap to my face. “I don’t want to see you anymore, and I don’t want your help.”

This is what I had been striving toward. To push her away. Make her see what an asshole I am. That she doesn’t need me. Doesn’t want me. Still, it hurts.

This is fucking crazy. I caused her pain and now I’m hurting, too.

“Goodnight, Atticus.”

“Take care of yourself, Coco,” I whisper as she gives me one last, sad look and enters the building. I wait to see her window light come up, scanning the street all the while, making sure nobody is lurking in the shadows.

The light finally turns on, and that’s my cue to leave.

This is the last time I’ve walked her home. The last time I’ve unlocked my door and found her there, dancing in my kitchen. The last dinner we’ve had together.

And the last touch.

My chest feels like a blade is slowly turning in my flesh, killing me.

I walk away. This is what I should have done on day one, the morning after she was almost kidnapped at the bar. This is for the best.

I repeat that to myself like a mantra. This is the best solution for her.

Why does it feel like the worst mistake of my life?