He moved toward me, backing me up until I was trapped against the wall and him. His gaze caught mine so intensely, the hair on the back of my neck pricked and instincts screamed on high alert.
His hands cupped my hipbones, his thumbs tracing small circles. “How did you survive, O?” he breathed. “How did you pick yourself up after what happened?”
I froze, my insides melting from his touch and my heart fracturing from his question. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged as if he didn’t really understand himself. “Your parents basically disowned you since you were a child. Your dreams of being a dancer were destroyed. You don’t seem to have stayed in touch with people from school...you’re alone. Yet you’re not fucking up your life like I am.”
“How do you know what I’m doing with my life?”
“You’re so strong. Strong enough to push me away, even when I tell you you’re in danger. Strong enough to give me everything you have, all because you’re selfless. Strong enough to forgive me, even though I’m the reason you’re in trouble.” His nose nuzzled mine. “I need to know how you can do all that, endure everything you have, and still be good...because I...I’m really fucking struggling.”
My heart restarted, defibrillated from its forlorn fatigue all because I was stupid when it came to this man. Stupid and flawlessly forgiving. “Whatever you’re dealing with...you don’t have to do it alone.”
“God, there you go again.” His chest rose and fell as his breathing turned shallow. His eyes darkened, and the tiny space of my bedroom vibrated with connection. “You’re still willing to offer me salvation after everything I’ve done.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” His teeth bared. “You coped on your own.”
“Yes.”
“So why the fuck can’t I?” His eyes blazed, locking onto my lips. His temper dragged lust into the mix, swirling two potent chemicals in my bloodstream. “I’m useless. I’m failing everyone I love. I—” His forehead pressed onto mine. “I’m failing you...just like always.”
My stomach dropped and my core clenched, answering his summons, dragged into his need despite myself. Just as I knew it would. Just like it always would.
“Gil...” I shook my head as he placed one hand on my wall, caging me by my wardrobe, leaving the other one digging into my hip.
“You were so popular at school.” His fingers pulsed with ownership. “Until I stole you from them.”
I couldn’t heal the agony glowing in his gaze but I could offer a tiny bit of redemption. Pressing a hand over his heart, I whispered, “Until I chose you over them.”
He swallowed hard. “Why are you so alone now?”
God, what was the point of these agonising questions? “I’m not alone. You’re here.”
“And all I’m doing is making shit worse.” His hand caressed the side of my waist, over my breast, and settled above my heart—just like I touched him. “I wish I could be different. I wish we could be different.”
“We can be...if—”
“Stop.”
I didn’t like the weakness he conjured in me. I didn’t like the endless torment in his stare. What changed from the cruel body painter who’d said touching me was a mistake to this broken man unable to let me go?
Why did he care all of a sudden? Why did I grow angry that he did?
Steeling myself against his touch, I said, “I think it’s best if you go. We can talk later, when we’re both a bit more stable.”
He flinched. “Was it hard?”
I blinked, unable to keep up with his subject changes. “Was what hard?”
“Earning money. Keeping this place after your accident?”
Okay, this is too much.
Whatever was happening between us wasn’t the white-hot chemistry that’d gotten us into trouble with paint and orgasms yesterday. It wasn’t the raw, vulnerable truth that appeared when we’d kissed in the shower.
This was different.
This was...conversation.
This was learning about one another, discovering secrets, sympathising with past struggles.
This was talking.
And talking was so much more dangerous than any sex or kiss.
Ducking under his arm, I padded toward my bed, sucking in a shallow breath. He spun to face me, spying the duffel I used to use for my dance practices. Grabbing it, he tossed it on the bed.
I frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“I told you I’m staying here.”
Bending to open the middle drawer of my tallboy, he selected a pair of pyjama bottoms, a hoodie, and fluffy socks before moving to my sparse selection of office clothes in the wardrobe.
I chased after him, yanking a black blouse out of his grip. “Stop it.”
“Three days. I’ll figure this shit out by then...I promise.” He snatched a skirt from a hanger.
I snatched it back. “I can’t afford to spend three days at your place.”
“Why the hell not? It’s not like I’m going to charge you rent.” He reached for a shell pink shirt with cream piping.
Ducking in front of him, I stopped him from stealing yet another garment of mine. “I can’t be in your space, in your bed without being seriously hurt.”
He froze, his gaze snapping onto mine. “You’re afraid I’ll raise a hand against you?”
“No.” I laughed sadly. “You’d never hurt me in that way...apart from the other day with the police.” I sighed. “I’m talking about other kinds of pain. We’ve only been back in each other’s lives for a few days, and look at the mess we’re already in.”
He stiffened. “It’s a mess I can fix by not touching you anymore.” The words seemed to choke him.
“It’s a mess that will only get more complicated the longer we spend together.” It physically tore out my heart but I forced, “You don’t want to be with me—you’ve told me over and over again—so it’s not fair of you to demand I spend time with you...not when I can’t stop wanting—”
His lips crashed on mine, silencing me. His tongue dove past my lips, consuming me.
Unbridled angst and energy flowed between us.
I kissed him back—weak and hungry.
His fingers shot through my hair, keeping me pinned as he leaned into me, squashing me against the wall. His hips rocked into mine, wedging his erection against my belly.
God, I didn’t stand a chance.
“How are you this brave when you have no one?” He kissed me vicious and deep. “How does loneliness not eat you alive?”
I arched my mouth away from his, breathing hard. My lips tingled, my body damp and ready for anything he wanted to give me, but his question had been horribly cruel.
My hands balled. “I’m not lonely.”
“I am.” His eyes searched mine. “I’m dying a little every day because of it.”
“You can’t say things like that.”
“Things like the truth?” He traced his thumb over my cheekbone. “Tell me how you did it. Tell me what I should do. Fuck, O...tell me how to stop—” He leaned to kiss me again, but I slipped under his arm and pushed his weight away.