Page 82 of Ruined Vows
I didn’t stop it. Istartedit. Well, I let it happen, which isjust as bad. Iletthat kiss happen and then bolted like I’d just lit a match in a fireworks factory.
I pace the living room once—twice—grab a bottle of water, open it, and forget to drink it. It’s like I’m having a senior moment in my twenties.
“God,” I mutter to no one. “You’re so dumb.”
I toss the bottle onto the couch and start peeling off layers—shoes, dress, and my bra. It’s as if I’m trying to erase the memory of his hands on me.
The hands were on my skin,underit. And I didn’t just let it happen; no, I acted as if Iwantedit.
I still want it.
And I hate how much thatdoesn’tbother me. He’s living rent-free in my head. I should block his number. Or send him a scathing one-liner. Or ignore him for three days to prove I don’t need him.
Instead, I just stare at the screen. I don’t know what to do because I’m losing control of him, us, and the bet.
Because for a moment in that car, when his hand touched my waist and I kissed him like I didn’t know my own name?—
I didn’t feel broken.
I felt wanted. Damn him, he made me feel warm and protected, and he gave me the feeling of what it would be like to reach for something in the dark, knowing someone would be there. He’s not the type of man who runs in the face of danger. He rushes toward it.
And now I’m here. Alone. Standing in my perfect condo with perfect lighting and the perfect emptiness of knowing that Iran.
Again.Because it’s safer to be untouchable than tofeel.
The second I felt something real, I forgot how to survive. I forgot how tobreathe. And damn him for making me want to feel more.
I’m half-asleep on the couch when my phone buzzes again. Maybe I’m in a lust coma, I’m not sure anymore.
I slip into my bedroom and tug on an oversized tee, and my phone buzzes. I don’t have to check to know it’s him. It’s always him now. I grab my phone without checking, because honestly, who else would dare?
“Hey,” I murmur, my voice still rough from sleep.
“You looked good today, Princeza,” he says in his low and wicked voice.
I blink awake instantly. “Are you stalking my painting date with senior citizens now?” I ask.
“I call it strategic protection,” he says, and I hear the smirk. “Old men are the worst.”
I laugh, curling tighter under the blanket I pull over me because I’m feeling naked. “Mr. Novak offered me a Werther’s Original and a crooked self-portrait. I think I survived.”
“Barely,” he says. His voice drops a note, only it’s making me, and he might as well be beating his chest and drum. “Next time you wear that sundress, I’m dragging you over my shoulder and locking you somewhere only I know.”
Heat coils low in my stomach. My breath catches. He wouldn’t dare, would he?
“You’re all talk, Petrovic,” I tease, keeping it light even as my body betrays me.
He hums, deep and slow, like a promise.
“Keep telling yourself that, Princeza.” A beat of silence hangs between us. “Sleep, Bianca,” he says. “Dream about me.”
I bite my lip. “Bossy.”
“Always,” he growls, right before hanging up.
I stare at the dark screen, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Dream about him? As if I had a choice.
