Page 10 of Breathing Wisteria
His eyes meet mine and I can feel the challenge in them. The familiar war of wills that had always been our normal. Before I realize what I’m doing, I begin to close the door in his face, enjoying the look of surprise for a brief moment before the door blocks him from sight.
Just as it’s about to shut, a hand reaches in and a loud curse sounds when the door clamps his hand against the doorframe. He pushes in, squeezing his large frame through the tiny space, glaring at me.
“Smartass.”
I turn and follow him, watching while he takes in the small apartment. I refuse to let my eyes wander to his perfect ass, but just the thought of it reminds me of long, slow thrusts, my hands desperately clawing, trying to bring him deeper.
Giving myself a mental bitch slap, I take a step forward and point toward the small loveseat. “Sit. Do you want anything? I don’t have any beer, but I think I have some vodka left.”
He stops in front of the sofa and looks back at me. His face contorts into an expression of humor laced with pain, and my chest seizes with an unexplained pain.
“We gonna need alcohol for this?”
My hand that had been reaching for the refrigerator door, stops mid-air.
“I guess I just kind of assumed.” Again, memories slap me up the side of my head. “Seems to me, most of our conversations after—” My throat closes, and I struggle to continue, tugging on the hem of my oversized sweatshirt nervously. “I just remember needing a lot of alcohol.”
Flynn scrubs his hands across his face and flops down on the seat.
“I remember.” His voice is sadder than I remember. “Coffee would be good. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
Nodding, I set about making some. Strong, black coffee for him and something much more palatable for me, full of sugar and caramel creamer. I try to ignore the awkwardness that blankets the air between us, but it’s really all I can think about. My movements are stilted, and I don’t remember ever feeling so uncomfortable in my own skin. It doesn’t help that his eyes have not left me the entire time. I feel them as surely as I would feel his touch and it’s making me incredibly self-conscious.
“Here you go.” After what feels like roughly seventy-three hours, but was more likely less than five minutes, our drinks are finally ready. I grab the two mugs and begin to move toward him, embarrassingly captivated by the small smile he gives me. Not watching where I am going, my elbow bumps the pile of junk mail from earlier and I watch in horror as it, along with my sketchpad, crashes to the floor.
I turn around and the coffee mugs make a loud bang as I dump them on the counter. Coffee sloshes over the sides and my hands sting from the burn, but I quickly try to get to the spilled puddle and snatch up my book.
My heart slams into my chest when I turn and see Flynn already kneeling down, gathering everything up.
It feels as though he’s moving in slow motion and the needle of despair pricks harder when I see his eyes light up at the sight of my sketchbook. He never could stop himself from looking, no matter how many times I told him to fuck off.
I watch him stand and straighten, I want to scream at him to stop, but I’m paralyzed, completely unable to move or speak.
His large hand begins turning the pages. I notice how the charcoal smudges his fingers slightly as they trace lightly over the drawings. His jaw relaxed now and his expression curious.
I watch this all dispassionately, knowing what’s to come. Dreading it.
I know it as soon as he reaches my sketch from earlier. I can see it in the way his body tenses, his hand stilling. I watch as his eyes widen briefly, before closing tight, shutting me out.
“I’m sor—”
“Don’t. When did you draw this?” His voice is tight, harsh, and I know that any hope we had of sorting this shit out tonight has disappeared.
“Tonight.” I slip my mask on, falling into old habits, removing any emotion from my voice and face.
Flynn is the complete opposite, his face a riot of conflicting emotions and I prepare for him to storm out. For this to be my last memory of him.
“Wyatt?” The sound of his broken voice draws my gaze back to him and I can’t help but admire the rawness of him.
“Fuck!” he roars out and before I can make any sense of what is going on, he is bearing down on me, a look of exquisite torture painted on his face.
