“I wouldn’t want to kill my brother,” she whispers.
“You wouldn’t want to fuck him either,” the words slip quietly out, and her eyes widen, just a hair, at their receipt. God, I am in love with this woman. The force of it yanks at my foundation. My hand softens at her chin and slides down the front of her sweater, coming to rest on her hips, my fingers biting into the fabric as I pull her against me. “Tell me you want to fuck me, Kate.”
She shakes her head minutely. “I don’t.”
I lean forward, my lips gently brushing over her ear and down the hollows of her neck, my control wavering and I steal a kiss, just a few, along the way. I feel her shift in response, the work of her thighs against each other, the arch of her into me, her tells as loud as a scream. God, the things I could give her. The ways I could please her. I travel back along her neck and pause at her ear. “Tell me Kate. Give me this one fucking thing so I can go home, wrap my hand around my cock, and picture every filthy thing I want to do to you. Do you want to fuck me?”
She puts a hand on my chest, and I stop, the bite of my grip loosening, the breath in my throat stalling. I lift my mouth away from her ear and look into those eyes.
“You didn’t have to say anything to him,” she whispers. “I would have said no. It wasn’t your fight. I’m not yours to fight over.”
It should make me happy, but it feels like a breakup.
She steps back, and a part of me dies. “Wanting to fuck you has never been the problem.”
I don’t know how she can look into my eyes so calmly when she says it. I don’t know how, when she turns and walks away, she doesn’t stumble.
I watch her leave, and I’ve never felt so vulnerable, so lost.
If our relationship was lingerie, it’d be fur-lined handcuffs, latched around you, the key lost, escape impossible.
Her
When I broke up with Craig, it was clean and neat. With Stephen, our parting was rough, the result of a fight, one where he’d called me names and accused me of cheating, his face red, spittle flying. I had started out explaining, trying to explain the nature of my friendship with Trey, how he didn’t mean what he’d said, how even if there had been moments of attraction it had never gone anywhere. All of those words had stopped in the face of complete hysteria—the kind, conservative man I’d dated for a year was gone, this new Stephen ripping a brass sconce out of the wall, then smashing a Queen Anne chair through the French doors. I’d shut my mouth and fled through the front door, all of my excuses and explanations worthless in the presence of that. I got in my car and ignored his calls, his voicemails full of venom and hatred, a combination that only cemented my decision.
Screw my attraction to Trey. Screw the inappropriate things he said. That night, I sent Stephen a short text breaking up with him for one reason: he was insane. Maybe his display of rage was out of love, a reckless passion he had hidden for the last twelve months. But it is unacceptable for him to behave that way, to handle anything that way, much less a few careless words Trey had tossed his way.
Trey is my new problem. When I’d left Stephen’s house and went straight to the office, I was half-furious with Trey for causing it all, half-emotional from the fight with Stephen. Confronting Trey hadn’t helped, his confident declarations catching me off guard, my system too raw to handle the dark look in his eyes, the soft touch of his lips against my throat, the brush of his fingertips and beg of his voice.
“Tell me you want to fuck me, Kate.”
I close my eyes and wonder how I will ever face him again.
“You know you guys can’t go back to being friends now.” Jess digs out a bit of baby food and holds it out to Skylar, who clamps her mouth shut and looks away.
I sprinkle glitter over a line of glue and say nothing. “Wanting to fuck you has never been the problem.” Had I actually said that? Had I told Trey that I wanted to fuck him? My mind hurts just thinking about the repercussions. I turn the cardboard page on its side and tap the excess glitter off, Jenna squealing with pleasure at the shimmery result. “He’s in New York,” I say. “So at least I don’t have to see him this week.”
“But you’ve talked to him.”
“Yes.” Of course we’ve talked. It’s habit to call him on my morning drive in. Fifteen decisions a day go smoother when discussed with him. There is no “running of Marks Lingerie” without both of us, hand-in-hand, pushing it forward. “But on the phone … I don’t know. It’s different. It’s easier.”
“Because you can’t rip each other’s clothes off?” She gets up and moves to the fridge.