She scoffed, but the watery sound was less sarcastic than she wanted, and more desperate for his approval than she’d like.
“I don’t care if you understand or not.”
He never decided the fate of something rare and precious. He was long gone by that time.
She felt him shake his head. “Okay, maybe I don’t understand. Maybe I never will. But I can’t fight you anymore. I can’t fight myself, or this.” His arms flexed.
She couldn’t, either.
Told him so without words, clutching the back of his T-shirt as she wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him as tightly as he held her.
A shudder wracked his body at her death grip.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispered, over and over, the sandpaper scrape of his words like sweet nothings in her ear.
Solace after so long without. Absolution she never requested.
“For what?” Though she already knew.
Good luck to him, he’d sneered.
But he meant the exact opposite, and for that heinous well wish, she should bruise some balls. Demand a retraction. Kick him out.
Instead, she closed her eyes and nuzzled her face into his neck, inhaling his spicy scent. His presence, so strong and stoic. So confident.
So sure of every decision he ever made.
Instead, she held on even as her old friend hatred screamed to let him go. Shove him away before he hurt her again.
“I’m sorry for all of it. Everything.” Pulling back but not letting her go, he wiped away her residual tears with the pad of his thumb. “I never should have left you.”
“For once, we agree.”
“I should have fought for you.”
“Not just for me. For us.”
“Yeah,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut, hiding his pain. His shame. Or maybe his judgment, so blatant only minutes earlier. “For us.”
They could have been in love. They could have been a family.
If only he’d fought for her as hard as he fought for his country.
Cupping his stubbled cheek, she stroked a face so familiar, so treasured, it made her soul ache. This, the older version. More hardened. Less happy.
“I really do hate you.”
“I know. It’s mutual.” He smiled. “We were always in sync, you and I.”
“I shouldn’t be touching you. I shouldn’t let you touch me. I should be protecting myself and my hate.” And what she had in Riverhead. “Hate’s my good buddy. It’s gotten me through the last decade.”
“Ditto, my sexy little doily breaker.”
But she didn’t just hate him. She loved him. And not maybe, as she’d been telling herself. But definitely. An unpleasant revelation.
A grievance, really.
“It killed me to walk away from you,” he murmured, that rough emotion back in his voice. Then his tone changed. Friend . . . to foe. “What does it say about me that I’m back again, knowing that leaving you a second time is probably going to hurt as much as the first? Knowing nothing will change the sins of the past?”
“I don’t know.” The need to defend herself was overshadowed by hope. The promise of tomorrow despite yesterday. “What does it say?”
That you still love me, too?
His eyes, dark and rich, and as intoxicating as the bourbon on the counter, warmed with unnamed emotion.
Longing, she told herself. Love.
But then, as if he knew he was giving away too much, he blinked. And blocked her. All emotion, be it good, bad, or in between, was gone.
“That I still wanna fuck you.”
This was the Jameson she knew present day. Untouchable in any way but the physical.
Letting her hands fall away, she stepped back. “Deep down, you’ll always blame me for what happened.”
It wasn’t a question, but he answered anyway.
“Yes.” She appreciated his honesty. “But I blame myself too.”
She snorted. “Good. Though I would lay more culpability at your feet than mine.”
But now wasn’t the time to divvy out fault. She had a real-life dick in front of her—literally and figuratively—and it wasn’t purple.
It was perfection.
Chloe tilted her head toward the bed behind her. “You wanna do this or not?” As Genevieve often accused her, she never learned her lesson the first time.
“Have hate sex? For old time’s sake?”
“What other reason can you think of?” Blaming residual tequila in her system, she pulled her T-shirt off, showing her secret weapons showcased in a pink lace push-up bra meant more for show than support. “Otherwise, leave. I’m too tired to fight. I’m going to bed, with or without you.”
Jameson’s downfall, her boobs. A handy tool in such a situation.
“This doesn’t change anything.” His gaze was locked on her cleavage.
“You say that like I want things to change.” The lace only highlighted her nipples; it didn’t disguise them. “I quite like hating you.”
“Because then you don’t have to examine your own shortcomings?”
“No,” she said simply, holding her ground when he stepped toward her, eyes hooded. “You’re just an easy guy to dislike.”
Tugging off his own shirt, he smiled—a feral, almost rabid grin—and it reminded her he had far more experience at this than she. “Think you can handle scratching an itch without commitment, cupcake? Sex without love?”
“You’re back to that now?” At his raised brow, she added, “Calling me cupcake like it’s a bad word?”
“It is.”
A knife to the heart, but damned if she’d show him the wound.
“I can have sex without love, Jameson. You see, I have this ex-boyfriend.” She unbuttoned her cotton shorts, offering him a sneak peek of matching pink panties. “He’s a runner, as they say, but still so hot you can’t help yourself. You wanna ride that roller coaster again.”
Her gaze skimmed over his hair-roughened chest and defined abs, followed that mouthwatering happy trail as it disappeared into his jeans. Desperate to trace it with her fingers.
Her tongue.
“He taught me it was possible,” she murmured, looking up into his blazing eyes. “To have sex without love. I learned the hard way how easy it is to separate the two.”
He grunted. “How’s that?”
“He didn’t love me.”
Studying her face, he seemed to consider his next move, his expression almost thoughtful. “He said it, didn’t he?”
“Said it,” she confirmed, with a shrug. “But didn’t show it when the rubber met the road. He was probably just lying to get laid.”
He stepped into her, aligning their bodies, backing her up. “And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Lying?”
Her legs hit the bed, and she clutched his strong forearms to avoid falling backward. His powerful body surrounding her, fear is what she should feel. Fear for her heart, already battered and bruised by this man.
But instead, she felt only exhilaration.
More than with any other man, few that there’d been.
When he dipped his dark head, she pulled away from his kiss, needing to make one thing crystal clear first. “I never lied to you, Jameson.”