Page 92 of Ruin Me Gently

But the lack of answer still stung.

Sage and sea salt clung to my clothes, his scent curling around the whole room like smoke, filling my space, my lungs. My lips still tingled from the scrape of his stubble, I could still feel the heat of his mouth against mine, rough and desperate like he’d been starving for it. My hips ached where his hands had gripped me, fingers digging in like he was trying to pull me in until there was no air between us.

I swallowed hard, pressing my palms to my forehead, willing the heat in my blood to burn out.

I didn’t want to play this game. Didn’t want to pretend this wasn’t already something. Didn’t care how messed up it was.

I wanted him.

He made mefeel. Something I couldn’t place, couldn’t name. But it was different. And God, it was nice. Even if he still wouldn’t show his damn face. Even if I didn’t know his damn name. Even if all this—whateverthiswas—made absolutely no sense. It wasstillnice.

And he’d wanted me first, right?

He was the one following me. The one leaving me gifts. The one buying me lunch. The one who’d asked if he could touch me first.

That meant something. Didn’t it?

I mean, every time I’d laid down on him over the last week, let him stroke my hair, melted into the warmth of his touch, I’d felt it. Felt how hard he was, straining through the layers of fabric between us. And I hadn’t missed the way he tried to adjust himself under my weight to hide it. Every. Single.Time.

So what the hell did that mean if it didn’t mean he wanted me?

Had I read it wrong? Acted like some complete idiot and humiliated myself?

Or was it a self-control thing? Was he worried he’d snap? Why would he even be worried about that?

It wasn’t like I hadn’t made it clear as day that I wanted it. That I wantedhim.I literally said, ‘I want you to touch me.’

My stomach twisted, sharp and ugly.

Or had he just… changed his mind?

Had it been all build up, all tension, all anticipation, until reality didn’t live up to whatever fantasy he’d been carrying around in his head?

Had he realised mid-kiss, mid-touch, mid-moan into my mouth that I wasn’t what he wanted after all? That once he finally had me, finally got his hands on me, I wasn’t what he thought I’d be?

No.

No, that wasn’t it.

Because if it was, then why had he kept touching me like that?

Why had his hands been so greedy, so desperate, so goddamn hungry for me?

Why had he made hot, needy noises like that?

Like it was a relief.

Like he’d been dying for it.

Like I was something he couldn’t help but want.

This was so stupid. I was being ridiculous. Obsessing over something that didn’t even matter. I needed to grow the fuck up, take a cold shower, maybe start meditating or something. Because clearly my brain had decided to up and fuck off in the complete wrong direction, and—what the hell is that noise?!

I grabbed my phone from the coffee table, thumbing the screen to pull up the doorbell feed.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Mr. Stalker was pacing. Back and forth across my porch. Every few steps, he’d stop, mutter something, then start moving again.

---