Page 170 of Salvatore

“No.” He grabs my wrists. “We’re not doing this again.”

35

IVY

I flinch,caught off-guard despite the blindly obvious groundwork he’d laid for his rejection. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he grates.

Humiliation floods my cheeks as I lower my gaze, my attention skimming past the confusing bulge that remains rigid against his zipper before diverting to the bedcovers.

Leave.

Pack up what’s left of your beaten pride and skedaddle.

But despite the mortification and heartbreak, I can’t move. “What part of my messed up existence finally became too much?”

He releases my wrists. “That’s not what this is.”

Sure it’s not.

There’s always been a thesis-length list of reasons we shouldn’t be attracted to each other. Now a dead mother and a gestational entanglement have been added to the mix, and it’s no surprise I’m no longer a worthy conquest.

“Right… Thanks for the clarity.” I contemplate my dismount, trying to figure out how to achieve it gracefully without the use of my stomach muscles.

“Don’t turn on me, Ivy.” My name is sharpened with warning. “I’m doing this for your benefit—not mine.”

My benefit?“You can spare me the vague clichés.” I lean sideways, hoping to slide right off of him as I meet his gaze. “I’m a big girl.”

“Don’t give me attitude. I’m not in the mood.” He grabs for me, first at my hips, then my waist, both attempts vetoed a breath before contact. “Jesus Christ, there’s nowhere to grab without hurting you.”

“Commenting onmyattitude is rich when you’re?—

“Quiet.” His hand grasps the back of my neck, making me still. “I said I’m not in the mood.”

I glare through the hurt. “For a lot of things, apparently.”

His nostrils flare. “This isn’t a rejection. It’s a fucking intervention.”

“Intervention?”

“You heard me. You fucked me the day of Carlo’s funeral because you were drunk. Then I laid hands on you in the rec room and made you feel like that piece of shit who took your virginity just so you could have some clothes to?—”

“No. That’s?—”

“Yes.” He releases my neck and throws his cell to the bedcovers. “And now you’re all over me due to pregnancy hormones because you made it clear last night you didn’t want this.”

I deadpan, my brain frazzling while my gaze treks to his phone screen and the bright pink maternity website with itsWhat to Expect When She’s Expectingarticle headline.

“You’ve been researching my pregnancy?” I eye him with an exaggerated squint. “Is this you being a gentleman?”

“This isn’t a joke,mibella reina.”

“Oh, I can see that.” His endearment, paired with the caveman attitude, is enough to end me. “But if you want tosucceed in this off-base chivalric plan, I suggest you tone down the aggression, because weirdly enough it’s a massive turn-on.”

He bites back a frustrated huff. “It’s the hormones.”

“It’snothormones.” Well, notonlyhormones. “I may have been under the influence of alcohol the first time, but I knew what I was doing.”

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