Page 60 of Refrain

“It’s not like I don’t…like I don’t want you,” he says thickly. “I do.”

I do.Everything in my body rides the wave of those words.I want you.

I’m already croaking out an argument. “But—”

“Butyou won’t want me,” he says.

And then he’s gone. The door slams. Reality descends, and my body ramps up for yet another grueling withdrawal. Good. I deserve to suffer.

Biting my lip so hard that I taste blood does nothing to assuage the self-hate surging through my veins. God, how could Ibe so fucking pathetic? I look down at my fingers in disgust. Then again, how could Inotbe?

Piotr taught me that the only way to process lust is to take what you want. Demand it from those weaker than you and break down anyone strong enough to resist. I’m still his creature, so desperate for affection.

So broken.

Tears escape my eyes before I can blink them back, searing fiery trails down my cheeks. The sting of rejection shouldn’t affect me so harshly. So fucking deeply.

But it hurts.

As it should. Maybe I’ll learn my lesson now. I’ll heed Arno’s advice. I’ll stay away.

I won’t consume another dizzying dose from a dealer who wants nothing to do with me.

CHAPTER TWENTY

ESPI

Fuck.

I never used to smoke in bed, making it the one place that didn’t reek of ash. Better to be safe than sorry. I knew a druggie once who lit up half-asleep and set himself on fire.

She changed that. I wake up with a cig already in my mouth. The first thing I do is feel around for my lighter and flick the flame with my eyes still closed. One puff and the risk is worth it—I’d burn alive rather than feel what I do when I see her face. When I hear her voice.

In a way, she makes me feel like Dante. Out of fucking control. Or maybe more likehim… Sick. Deluded. Like father, like son.

A cold shower is the only weapon I have against her. I stagger into the bathroom while I inhale the rest of the cig, and then I wrench the showerhead on, grappling for control. The shitty water pressure won’t help much. I need a damn tsunami to knock her out of my system.

The reaction doesn’t make any damn sense. I’ve had women come onto me before. I’ve seen them naked. Barely a night can go by at Mulligan’s without someone shaking their ass in my face.

But no one looks at me the way she does. Hell, most people wouldn’t dare. Little Miss Yellow. She’s a cigarette, demanding my sole attention or she’ll set my ass on fire.

Kind of like the one I’m smoking now. I flinch as hot ash trickles from the overgrown end and burns through my sweatpants. I flick it off and pat myself down, but the pain lingers. Like her scent. Like this hard-on.

The burn of nicotine doesn’t diminish the ache in my stomach. I’m too damn wound. I have to toss the cigarette into the toilet bowl and slide a hand beneath my waistband. I roughly grab my dick, squeezing it at the root, desperate to cut off all fucking feeling. It doesn’t help. I pump my hand along the shaft, squeezing my eyes shut to block my surroundings out.

The physical touch does nothing. I have to envision it… I have to see her riding high on the pole, her legs splayed, her breasts swaying. It’s not even her body that gets me off though. It’s those eyes. The hunger in them. That need. Like she might actually feel whatever the fuck I do.

“Shit.” My hand flies out, my palm hitting the wall. The fire building in the base of my stomach spreads, but it needs more fucking fuel. Like the feel of her skin. The gasp she let out when I touched her. The feel of her nipples grazing my palm. And then her pussy…

A grunt rips from my throat. My hand keeps moving. Faster. Harder. I only have to imagine what it would be like to thrust inside her and I come so hard that my ears pop with the force of it. I’m still in a daze when I shake the hot cum from my fingers and climb into the shower.

I stay here until my teeth start to chatter. Until every inch of me is numb. Then I climb out, get dressed, and head out. When I reach Mulligan’s, Arno is already there, taking up a stool near the bar. When he sees me, he just grunts and lifts a shot glass in salute. Domi’s at the bar counter behind him, and Ksei…

She’s in the corner, a broom in her hand. The bruise aroundher throat looks even worse in the daylight, but she wears it like someone who’s been through worse—healedfrom worse.

I turn my back on her and seek out Francisco. I need a job. Something to take my mind off Dante. Arno’s no fucking use when he’s this deep into the bottle, but Frank already has a task in mind.

“I need your expertise,” he tells me when I find him in the back, moving crates of liquor into the basement, where Arno stores the good stuff. “Arno won’t like it, but the fucker won’t talk.”

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