Page 22 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter sixteen

My lips brush against his.

Tentative. Soft. Asking for permission.

The only response I receive is him freezing beneath me, and for a second, I worry that I’ve catastrophically misread this entire situation.

Shit.

He doesn’t want this.

And now I’m going to have to flee the continent and change my name or something.

I detach my lips from his. “Sor—”

I don’t get more than one syllable out before his large hands seize the sides of my face, he crushes our lips together, and swallows the rest of my apology.

Holy shit.

Electricity ignites between us, and I allow myself the momentary surrender of sinking into the kiss.

His tongue pries my mouth open with all the forceful urgency of a man dying of thirst, and my mouth parts in silent invitation: take me. Take as much as you want.

And he does.

He tilts my head back, hands cradling the sides of my head, so that I’ve got no choice but to let him control the tempo of the kiss. My hands wind around the back of his neck, pressing closer to—

“Yo, get a room!”

I’m not sure I have the capacity to be embarrassed about kissing Adrian Ellis, but the chorus of cat-calls and slurred laughter from the group of drunk college kids stumbling by still cuts through the moment—and serves as an obvious reminder that we are making out in thirty-degree weather.

On a very public sidewalk.

Where anyone could walk by, snap a photo, and blast both our faces all over the internet.

As if he’s come to the same conclusion, Adrian pulls back, nothing but heat in his obsidian eyes. “You’ll come back to my apartment with me,” he says, and the softness in his voice almost masks the fact that it’s not a question.

I nod anyway.

He smiles, full of warmth, and leans down to kiss me.

***

It’s a twenty-minute drive to Adrian’s penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side—and he waits approximately thirty-three seconds (which is the time he takes to open the car door, order his driver to ‘take us home’ and raise the partition) before he’s kissing me again.

“Do you know how many times I had to resist the urge to touch you tonight?” He murmurs against my mouth.

Somehow, I end up straddling his lap—a position that’d be cramped and uncomfortable in any other backseat—but the cushy leather seats of his BMW comfortably accommodate even a man of Adrian’s size.

Forget conference calls…you could have sex back here, I think—and then immediately regret it when my mind pictures the obvious: me, Adrian, a pile of discarded clothes, and foggy windows.

Is that where this is leading?

Us having sex in a moving car?

He nips at my bottom lip playfully. “I can almost hear you thinking. What is it?”

I pull back just enough to make eye-contact. “The partition…it’s soundproof?”

His eyes glitter. “I can promise you there’s not a chance I’d ever let someone hear—” He bites down on my lip hard enough that I gasp. “— this and live.”

That sentiment should not send heat coursing through me, but it does—and Adrian picks up on the change immediately. “Does that turn you on?” He murmurs, and the corner of his mouth curls upward. “To know I’d kill someone just for hearing you come undone? Even by accident?”

A jolt of pleasure courses through me, and I instinctively press my hips into his because— fuck. It does turn me on.

It turns me on a hell of a lot more than it should, and I’m not sure if that’s because it’s coming from Adrian, who could probably read the entirety of a Pub Med article aloud and still leave my panties soaked, or because I know he means it.

They’re not just empty, lust-addled words from some former frat bro who’s never so much as swung a punch.

This is the same man who nearly broke a boy’s jaw for calling me beautiful.

The same man who told me he’d lay the world at my feet. The same man who blackmailed and paid off someone whose life I ruined.

And— I pause, the heat in my belly cooling— the same man who couldn’t tell me he loved me.

Who, by his own admission just a few weeks ago, had completely moved on.

Who, probably, tells all his partners that he’ll kill for them. Maybe even has—

His grip on my waist tightens to the point of pain, and I whimper softly. “You’re thinking again.” He makes a tsking sound with his mouth, like I’m a poorly behaved child who’s reached for the cookies on the counter after being told ‘no.’

It’s been ten years. You’ve had other partners, he’s had other partners...don’t let a little (irrational) jealousy ruin the night.

And I certainly don’t want to discuss my irrational jealousy.

So, I opt for a different approach.

I rock my hips into his again— hard this time—relishing the quiet, strained breath that escapes him.

It’s a temporary victory though, because the third time I try, his hands still my hips. “Tell me,” he orders. “What you’re thinking about.”

My hands, situated on his shoulders for stability, fist the fabric of his sweater more tightly than necessary. “Why?”

His dark eyes root me to the spot. “Because I want to know every single thought that runs through your head, no matter how fleeting.” A pause.

“Because…” His jaw tightens, and he glances away, as if he’s irritated by even having to admit it.

“It bothers me when I don’t know. The idea that you could be thinking something, even small or significant, and I wouldn’t know… it’s unsettling beyond belief.”

From the mouth of anyone else, I’d think they were speaking in hyperbole—but I can tell by the severity of Adrian’s gaze that he means every word.

Because he’s a control freak, I think. I guess time hasn’t changed that.

I’m not entirely sure what to do with this request though, so I clear my throat. “I was thinking about you.” I shift, uncomfortable in more ways than one. “Being with other people.”

His head tilts to the side.

“Which is none of my business,” I hastily add. “But if you’re going to take me back to your apartment tonight, I need to know there’s not currently anyone else in the picture.”

He tilts his head more.

“I’m not asking for a list of your most recent one-night stands or anything,” I clarify. “Just…there’s not some girlfriend or partner who might be upset about what’s happening right now, is there?”

When he still doesn’t respond, unease gnaws at me.

Is there someone? Is that why he’s silent? He gets a little swept up in the moment with me, all while there’s probably some supermodel sitting in another city, waiting for a text back from her boyfriend?

Bitterness fills the back of my throat, and I open my mouth, ready to tell him I’m not interested in reliving past chemistry if he’s already got his future lined up and waiting somewhere else—but then he laughs.

It’s a low, velvety chuckle that ghosts over my skin. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his eyes shining with a surprising amount of warmth. “You truly don’t understand, do you?”

And then, in a gesture I could not have predicted in a hundred-million years, he one-handedly unfastens all three buttons at the neck of his sweater and pulls it down so—

Oh.

Oh.

For a moment, I can’t even comprehend what I’m looking at because— no. No way. This can’t be what I think it is.

My eyes widen, flickering up to his for the inevitable punchline, but he only nods.

Holy shit.

Because there, tucked beneath his collarbone and positioned right over his chest, Adrian has a tattoo of a poppy flower.

“You have a tattoo.” Shock colors my voice, and my trembling fingers reach for his exposed skin, half-expecting the ink to smudge with pressure.

It doesn’t.

“You have a tattoo,” I repeat, but it doesn’t sound any less unbelievable the second time. “Of my name.”

And, judging by the lack of scabbing, flaking, and raised skin, it’s not a fresh addition.

“When?” My voice shakes just as much as my hand.

The intensity in his eyes is nearly suffocating. “Several years ago.”

I gape at him. “Years? You’ve had this tattoo for years?

” I shake my head, unable to reckon with the fact that the Adrian I’ve been interacting with for weeks, the Adrian who callously told me to move on, the Adrian who went a decade without so much as a text, has had this living under his skin the whole time.

A lump clogs my throat. “Why?”

Why would you permanently etch me into your skin, and then spend the next ten years pretending I don’t exist?

He cups my face, and despite all my confusion, I lean into his touch.

“Initially, it was just supposed to be a reminder that I do, in fact, have the capacity to feel strongly for another human being,” he explains.

“But lately, it’s felt like a reminder of something else.

” A soft exhale, and he shakes his head.

“Well, not lately. It’s always been a reminder of us, of you —it’s just lately that it’s become an undeniable one. ”

There’s a lot to unpack there, but my brain latches onto one thing: undeniable.

I might’ve spent the past ten years living with Adrian in my head, but I’ve been permanently marked into his skin. A wound that’s bled and scabbed and flaked and healed into his connective tissue, where it’ll live forever.

An uncomfortable tide of emotion swells in my chest—like the jittery sort of tremor I get after consuming too much caffeine, and a laugh bubbles out of me.

Adrian raises an eyebrow in question, and I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just trying to picture you walking into a tattoo shop. The image isn’t computing.”

He scoffs lightly. “Please. This was done in the privacy of my own home, where I could be sure the environment was actually sterile, with a world-renowned artist from Thailand.”

Well, that makes a little more sense.

“It suits you,” I murmur as I trace the mark. There’s no color or extravagant detail added to the tattoo—just thin, delicate lines curling over his heart.

And I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something so familiar about the design. Is it the petals? The swooping stem?

Unease scratches at the back of my brain.

Why does it feel like I’m missing something?

Like it’s—

Adrian kisses me fiercely, and I lose both my ability to breathe and my train of thought for the rest of the drive.

But the unease never disappears.