“Why would I? Should I have rejoiced and thrown a party because the almighty Brandon King finally recognized my existence, decided I’m not disgusting anymore, and texted me? Get over your useless fucking self.”
His jaw tightens and he releases me. “Don’t be a dick. I apologized for what I think is a misunderstanding. I…don’t believe you’re disgusting because of your sexuality. I would never think that.”
“Thanks for nothing.” This time, I’m hell-bent on leaving.
Because unlike fucker Brandon who can lie through his teeth during a useless game and keep his control in check, I have zero chill.
And I need to go before I do something I’ll regret come morning. I didn’t even do regrets before the ill-fated meeting with this complete fucking charmer.
Brandon steps in front of me, or more like sways since he’s as drunk as a sailor. There’s only a subtle slur to his words, though, as if he can keep control despite being pumped full of liquor.
“What the fuck do you want now?” I sneer. “You’re uncharacteristically clingy tonight.”
“I want to ask you something.”
“Why would I answer? We’re not friends or anything are we, Lotus—” I cut myself off before I call him that.
Of course the bastard noticed the miscalculation despite being wasted, because his lips twitch.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I know I’m supposed to be mad—or keep up with the image, anyway—but it’s impossible to hold on to the anger I’ve left to fester when he’s smiling.
He is actually smiling without faking anything, his lips curving and his eyes softening. He looks happy when I could’ve sworn the asshole doesn’t know the emotion.
It’s because of the alcohol, isn’t it?
Also, why the fuck does it ache behind my rib cage?
Maybe I should have myself checked, because this shit is seriously disturbing.
His smile disappears as soon as it appeared and I want to shove my hand inside his throat and drag it out. Take a picture this time and keep it forever.
“Are you going to say something or are you just going to stand there and stare at me like a creep?” I ask, using the words he’s often thrown my way.
He purses his lips. Doesn’t feel so good, does it, prick?
“Just tell me…did you have a thing with Annika?”
“What the fuck? She’s like a fetus.” I narrow my eyes. “Why are you asking? You better not involve her in your stupid games or I’ll personally help Jeremy annihilate you.”
My blood roars at the mere thought of that. I still haven’t even forgotten about Clara, and now he wants Annika.
Nah, hell no.
Fuck that.
I’ll strangle the fuck out of him.
“No, no,” he says in a bit of a rush. “She’s too young and I don’t… I don’t like anyone who’s barely legal.”
His eyes shine brightly and I get closer, trying to read him. “You know I’m going to be twenty soon, right?”
That smile nearly makes another breakthrough and I catch myself sucking in my breath to see it, but he suppresses it in a typical asshole move. “You’re still way younger than me.”
“Way? It’s only three years.”
“And a half.”
“And a half. Jesus. We’re still in the same damn generation. You need to chill for a bit, my dude.”
He frowns, his lips pushing forward—fucking adorable. “I’m not your dude.”
“Aaand the grouchy Brandon King makes a stunning comeback!” I shake my head. “You just never disappoint, do you?”
“Well, maybe you should stop giving me all these nicknames.”
“Which one is your favorite?” I step closer until I can inhale the whiskey from his mouth. But alcohol isn’t the only thing I smell. I’m smothered by the musk emanating from his flushed fair skin and the notes of clover and citrus in his damn hair. Fuck, his hair smells so good.
Am I sure I’m not the drunk one?
Apparently, I don’t give a fuck about my resolve, because I whisper, “Do you prefer lotus flower? My dude? Oh, Prince Charming?”
“None,” he says slowly, his eyes light and hooded as he stares up at me.
“Oh, right.” I stand toe-to-toe with him and line my lips with the shell of his ear. “You like being called baby.”
He trembles against me. Fucking trembles. Or maybe it’s the alcohol and he’s swaying, but I couldn’t care less. I choose to believe it’s because I’ve destabilized him.
I choose to think he’s not immune to my presence and I’m getting under his skin as deep as he’s penetrated mine.
He better be or I swear to fuck I’ll personally amputate Kolya for the inhumane abstinence he’s been forcing on me for a whole damn month.
I tighten my chest muscles for the punch or shove I know is coming and wait.
Then wait some more.
But it doesn’t happen.
I step back to find Brandon pulling at the hairs at his nape. Otherwise, he’s completely still. Like a robot. Eyes staring at his feet.
Not blinking.
Not moving.
Okay, I’ve seen my fair share of fucked up, but this vacant look in his eyes is fucking disturbing.
What the fuck did I do now…?
Bran shakes his head and backs away, rocking on his feet, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s drunk on the alcohol or something else. His hand flops to his side as he swallows. “I…better go.”
“Sure thing, Prince Charming. Go back to your favorite hobby of running away. If you do that fast enough, you might reach your second favorite hobby—denial—in record time.”
His eyes shoot to mine. “Seriously, what the hell is your problem?”
“What’s your problem?” I invade his space again, my chest grazing his, and we both inhale at the same time. “Why the fuck do you act as if me calling you baby is the end of the world?”
“Because you’re not supposed to,” he whispers, his eyes blinking slowly, but he doesn’t stop running them over my face.
“You need to stop looking at me like that if you don’t want me to fucking devour you.”
He shakes his head once, but, surprisingly, no words come out of his antagonizing mouth.
But here’s the thing.
Brandon doesn’t look away and, instead, keeps staring, eyes hooded and lips slightly parted.
Fuck this asshole. He’s the most infuriating man I’ve ever gotten to know, but he’s still the only one who’s started a fire at the pit of my stomach, the flames so wild, they spread to my chest and fan my dick back to life.
I’m so hard, it’s fucking painful at this point, and I have to do something.
I’m back to that hopeless stage of wanting a taste.
A nip.
A lick.
Anything.
I’ll take anything he allows me to have. Even if small, I’ll fucking gobble it all down and store it in that nook inside me that’s disturbingly filled with him.
My hand bunches in his shirt and I growl as I tug and slam him against my chest.
I can feel that loud thump of his heartbeat as his eyes widen, panic glittering in their depths like wildfire, similar to mine.
But there’s something else a lot more potent.
Now that his control has wavered, I sense an avalanche of impulsiveness rushing to the surface.
And I just have to seize it. Trap it. Leave him no fucking way out.
Just once.
“D-don’t,” he stammers, both his hands landing on my chest as he searches our surroundings, which are full of drunk people, before he focuses on me again, his eyes a myriad of confusion. “Please.”