Page 7 of Sullied Saints

He reaches past me, about to pull the door open, whether I'm in front of it or not. Standing my ground, I hold the door handle at my hip with one hand. Dirk’s fist closes around mine, and at the contact, firm and intentional over my fingers, the impulse takes hold of me.

I turn my body, free hand coming up to grip the front of his shirt, and I pull Dirk’s mouth down onto mine. The contact is brief; I'm surprised by it even though it has been my doing. His taste is foreign and a little smoky, sending a bolt of fission through my chest, down into my belly. I feel his lips tense in response, solid body swaying towards me, over me.

A second later, Dirk overcomes the shock of what I've done and jerks his head back. My chest rises and falls fast as we stare at each other. His expression is unreadable, maybe surprised, maybe disgusted.

I open my mouth, letting go of the door handle as I step forward, about to what? Apologise?

Without a word, Dirk reaches for the door again, and this time, he leaves.

I want to scream. What an idiot I am, as though he would want me now. As though heeverwanted me.

Hands clamping over my face, I move away from the door, putting distance between me and what I just did. I reach the short strip of wall between the living room and the kitchen and lean my forehead against it, my fingers pressing hard against my eyes. I snivel and turn to go hide under my bedcovers until the shame passes, until the shattered hope can cut less deep. But in moving blind, I stub my toe on Cassandra's damned antique end table. I yell and drop my hands from my face.

I want to cry. I want to burn everything that was hers. I want to rip my hair out. I want to chase Dirk out of the building and somehow fix things, somehow convince him to come back. And then what? I don’t know, and that makes everything worse. Snatching up a figurine of an elephant off the table, I toss it angrily aside.

That's when I realise the door is open again.

And Dirk is there, again, staring at me.

My heart jumps straight back up from the pit of my stomach to somewhere in my throat. Before I can speak, or attempt to explain myself, he demands, "Why did you do that?" His face is far from blank or surprised now. He's mad. And that makes me angry right back.

All that’s gone on, all the calls of mine he’s ignored since the panel, all those plaintive messages I left asking just know that he’s okay, and the first real emotion he can finally show isanger?

Has he just come back in here to make me feel even worse? "Why?" I ask, incredulously.

"Yeah, why?" he crosses the living room.

"Because I wanted to! Even though you're an asshole.”

“I’mthe asshole?” he growls, stepping that bit closer, crossing some invisible boundary of personal space.

My heartbeat trips over itself. I don’t back away as he towers over me. In fact, I press forward, nearly brushing him. “Yes!Youare the ass…”

I don't get the last word spat out before I'm shoved back against the hall table.

Then he's kissing me. And it’s not him that's surprised this time.

I hold on to him with all the desire I had to not see him go. The hall table knocks back against the wall as our mouths lock, the sensation taking me to an instant high as his tongue pushes into my mouth, as we crush to each other and his hand hitches under my thigh to lift me up onto the edge, heedless of whatever goes tumbling. My back hits the wall, fingers tugging at the collar of his t-shirt, sliding under and against his skin. His hands are hungry on my waist, riding up the material of my shirt, and there's no secret as he presses between my thighs.

I’m keenly aware of how his touch, his mouth, and his arousal should feel wrong and awkward, and I even search for that. Here is the man I’ve known for so many years and never allowed myself to think of this way, who should scare me with this kind of intensity. But all that answers my search is keen excitement and an intense thrill like a need finally being realised. There's not only the passion of long-held back desire between us, but the anger too of all that's happened now, and it’s explosive, hot and too intense to think through. I know where this is going, and the aim is only to get there faster. His arm gripped around my lower back, Dirk tugs me forward, off the wall, to shove his hand inside the back waistband of my pants.

My breath catches, teetering on the edge of the hall table, when I reach back and grip his wrist. "I’m on my period," I remember that with a gasp.

"Don’t care,"’ he rasps, barely breaking the contact between our lips.

Dirk tugs me hard against him, so that my legs wrap around his hips, and the end table falls, knocked by one or both of us as we move away. We make it around the corner before he jams me against that wall, claiming my mouth again. I strip his shirt off, and suddenly his hand is against my bare skin, snaking under the band of my jeans and around my thigh, finding me. I arch against him, his fingers cool and rough where I'm soft and sensitive.

"Fuck," I muffle against this mouth. He jams harder, and I feel him even more through his jeans, a rock. A picture frame falls down beside me. Olivia's.

"Which bedroom is yours?" Dirk asks, voice low and dangerous. He’s been here before, but only so far as the front door.

"That one." I point back off to my right.

"Alright." And he pulls me off the wall again, taking my weight. But he doesn't turn for the window side of the apartment. Rather, I find Olivia's door opened at my back.

"This is…"

"I know," he growls.

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