Page 107 of Mess With Me

“Bullshit.”

“Exactly. And you’re full of it, too. It’s not a crime to have feelings, Griffin. You could let yourself like me.”

“I do like you.” He sounds like he’s getting pissed now.

“See, I don’t understand the problem then.”

“The problem is I need to keep you fuckingsafe.”

“Ugh!” I exclaim. My mother would have a hernia if she heard how unladylike that sound was. “When are you going to let yourself realize caring about me isn’t going to keep me any less safe? And don’t even start with that ‘cloudy head’ bullshit. What about…like…” I grasp for an example. “Parents? Parents care about their children more than any other humans care about anyone and they love the shit out of their kids. It doesn’t make any sense to me that you would want to pull back, thinking that’ll keep harm from coming to me.”

“Sasha—” Griffin sounds slightly bewildered on top of angry now.

“No. You know what? You’re right. You sleep out there—it’ll give you time to get what I said through your thick fucking head.”

Griffin’s tense, his hands tight at his sides, and I don’t miss the way his eyes drop down to my naked body again. Good. Let him look. Let him see what he’s missing.

He grits his teeth when he realizes I’ve caught him looking and makes his own angry grunt. “Fine. Exactly what I planned.”

He yanks his drawer open, pulling out what must be a T-shirt before jerking it closed again. Then he’s gone, slamming the door behind him.

I let out a sound of barely contained fury.

Then I flop back on the bed, taking no small bit of petty satisfaction in thathedidn’t get the satisfaction of the door slamming properly. It bounced off the frame so he didn’t get his final slam in.

Outside, I hear him snap open a sheet and throw a pillow down on the couch. The whine of the springs comes next as he slams himself down on the cushions.

For a moment, there’s nothing except my own angry breathing. That obtuse fucking asshole.

“You’re so stupid,” I whisper, even as I feel the prick of tears. I wipe them away angrily. I’m right. I know I’m right, and he knows I’m right.

I pull the sheet under my chin, tossing and turning.

I’m still naked. I’m pissed about that now, too. How I’ve been lying here every night thinking about him and resisting touching myself, wanting to replicate that delicious tease he gave me—not allowing me to come so when I did it was explosive.

I know he loved it as much as I did. Maybe more.

I stop suddenly, a devious thought occurring to me as my anger still simmers.

Because of his failed slam, the door’s slightly open. I can just see the edge of the couch.

A ripple of heat goes through me. He’s right there. Fine. If he doesn’t want this, I’ll take it myself. Except, I’ll do better than taking myself away from him—I’ll make him suffer.

I slip the sheet off my body so I’m fully naked on the bed. Then I prop the pillows up behind me so I can see outside, making a little throne for myself.

Satisfied and sure there’s no movement out there—this won’t work if he’s gone to the kitchen or his shop—I run my hands over my bare body.

I focus on going slow, enhancing my own pleasure.

And making noise.

It’s easy—I’m already turned on to a thousand knowing he’s out there and hopefully wide awake, stewing his stupid head off.

I breathe hard as I slide my hands over my stomach and breasts. As my palms glide over my nipples and they pucker under my touch, I let out a whimper. I remember the way he came to me on our wedding night, the raw need in his eyes when he walked in on me.

I think about the way he went straight for my pussy, knowing exactly what he wanted and taking it.

I gasp as my hand slips between my legs, to the slick heat of my center. I didn’t know I was into voyeurism. Or is it being voyeured? Whatever it is, I’m so wet already my own touch makes me moan. I graze my clit with my fingers, gasping as pleasure shoots through me at only the softest touch.

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