Or both.
Probably both.
It’s not like the sex was even good the other night, and he rolled over and checked his email right after, so logically, I know I’m not missing anything.
But my fucking heart still hurts.
“Misery loves company more than it cares what the company is,” I tell Wyatt.
He looks at me while he shoves the spoon back in the carton, then waves a hand in a circle, gesturing to me. “This is you being miserable?”
“I know, I make it look good.”
“I thought you looked like this all the time.”
“Asshole.”
He smirks, but it’s a dark smirk. Like he wanted me to call him an asshole, but it didn’t make him feel as good as he hoped it would. “What the hell do you have to be miserable about?”
“I broke a nail.”
He snags my hand and lifts it, turning it to inspect my perfectly trimmed, newly manicured nails, and tremors skittle out from the point where his thumb rests inside my palm.
It’s like he’s turning me on.
Patrick hasn’t turned me on in months. That’s what’s supposed to happen, right? You settle down with one person and get yourself into a rut and the sex becomes routine instead of exciting. It’s normal, right?
Or you were an idiot who should’ve dumped him a year ago, my subconscious helpfully offers.
I snatch my hand back, but I’m still ridiculously aware of Wyatt beside me.
The hitch in his breath.
The subtle scent of cinnamon and beer wafting off him.
The way his gaze is still trained on me. “So you got dumped too,” he muses.
“Shut. Up.”
That would’ve been more effective if I’d been able to say it without dribbling peppermint crunch ice cream down my chin and my voice wobbling.
He reaches out and wipes the drip off my chin, and I realize he’s leaning into my space.
My heart’s pounding. My breasts are getting full and heavy. My mouth is going dry, even with ice cream still lingering on my tongue, and I almost choke when I swallow.
“Merry fucking Christmas to us,” he says. His nose is inches from mine, and his lids are lowering over darkened eyes.
“There’s no fucking going on,” I point out, my breath getting shallower as I glance down his just-barely-off-center nose to his stupidly perfect lips.
“There’s not, is there?” he muses while his gaze darts to my lips too. “There’s only getting fucked over.”
Every time he says fuck, I get a shot of heat between my legs.
“You’re in my bubble,” I whisper.
“Maybe I’m trying to annoy you to make myself feel better.”
“Maybe if you wanted to annoy me, you should take your clothes off.”
Holy shit, I just said that.
He holds my gaze for half a second, and then his shirt goes flying. He settles back against the couch, still leaning into my space, but now with acres and acres of hard chest and sculpted stomach and cut hips and that perfect trail of hair arrowing down to disappear under his sweatpants.
“Now, what are you going to do to annoy me?” he asks.
I should dump this carton of ice cream on his head.
But I want to do something else.