“I didn’t come here to argue with you about a goddamned key,” he mutters, frustration bleeding into his tone.
“I know. You came here to boss me around, insert yourself into my love life — a place you most definitely do not belong — and reestablish yourself as an all-round jackass. Congrats!” I announce, making jazz-hands in the air between us. “You succeeded.”
His eyes flash with something scary again and he goes so tense, all my bluster and brass evaporates in an instant. When he strides closer, so there’s only a foot or so between us, my palms stop jazzing and go flat against his muscular chest.
I want to push him away.
I want to pull him closer.
I do neither.
He glares down into my eyes with a thunderous expression, and it takes all my strength not to give in to his intimidation and shy away like a scared little girl.
“Stay away from Brett Croft,” he rumbles at me, deadly serious.
“Stay away from me!” I yell back, angrier than I’ve been in a long time. Partly at him, because he’s the most domineering, overbearing man in the history of human existence, but mostly at myself, for being so affected by him despite that fact.
Yip! Yip! Yip! Boo chimes in from the couch.
Neither of us looks at the dog. We’re too busy glaring at each other, our faces so close I can feel his breath on my lips. His eyes seem to burn into mine, intense and angry. It’s almost painful to hold his stare, to resist the pull that — despite my best efforts — still exists between us. Thankfully, I’ve had a lot of practice looking at Nate with indifference on my face while my heart’s aflame in my chest.
He’s just never been standing so close before, looking back at me like he’s on fire, too.
For a split second, his gaze darts down to my mouth, lingering there for no longer than a heartbeat before flashing back to meet mine. I can’t help the surprised hiss of air that escapes my lips, as I try to keep myself under control.
He’s never looked at me like that before.
My nerve endings are frazzled, divided — half enraged, half enamored, equally angry and aroused. I’m being torn in two with opposing needs.
To kiss him.
To kill him.
To claim him.
To curse him.
With Nate and me, it all comes down to need. To lust — that driving force, that infatuating, life-creating elixir that ties me up in knots of desire, of passion, of pain. Even before I had words to define my feelings for him, I was consumed by it.
Wanting. Craving. Longing.
I lust for his body on mine as much as I lust for my own retribution, for my own selfish need to unhinge him like he’s always unhinged me. That familiar, heady, heart-stopping yearning, born of half a lifetime of cumulative need stirs in my veins…. but it’s not alone. No. Bloodlust — a darker, deeper, more dangerous desire, born of resentment and rejection — stirs there as well. It near tears me in half, the wanting. The needing. The lusting. The loathing.
The line between wanting him and hating him for never wanting me is so blurred, I can barely sort out my own feelings.
Still glaring down at me, he makes a sound at the back of his throat, almost a growl. Thoughts move in his eyes, but I can’t for the life of me decipher them.
“Is that all you wanted?” I whisper, gaze locked on his. I have no idea what emotions are swimming in my eyes. “To talk about Brett?”
He doesn’t move. I don’t even think he’s breathing. Boo has fallen eerily quiet, as though sensing the extreme tension between Nate and me as we stare at each other in the dark. It’s so still, so silent, I can almost hear the locking of his jaw, how his teeth grind together as he searches for control.
I’ve never seen him like this — his eyes a little wild, his words a little reckless. Around me, he’s never been anything except the epitome of restraint. Until now.
I wish I could say I didn’t like it.