Page 11 of Taste of Blood
“To continue our conversation from last night. You want to do that in the hallway, or will you invite me in?”
“Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath then turns and heads into the apartment. I take that as an invitation and walk in, closing the door behind me and following him into a sunny livingroom. It’s everything I’d expect Cord’s home to be–colorful, chaotic, and comfortable. Large, mismatched furniture is arranged atop a thick Oriental rug. There’s a scattering of blue and green glass orbs and a couple of houseplants on the wide windowsill. When did Cord become so domestic?
He plops down in the middle of the long couch that he no doubt had custom made to fit his tall frame and sprawls out, looking up as though daring me to object. I take a seat in an overstuffed wing chair opposite him and meet his eyes.
“You wanted to talk, so talk.”
He isn’t going to give me anything. Cord is a tough nut to crack, even when he’s being cooperative. He’s always kept things close to the vest, and prying them out is sometimes like an epic quest. Lucky for me, I enjoy a good challenge.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“I’m surprised you even have to ask. Did you forget that much?”
“Oh, I haven’t forgotten anything.”
As if realizing his mistake, he glances away, focusing his gaze beyond the window. I barely hear him when he murmurs, “You know this isn’t going to work.”
“It always did before.”
“For you.”
“I seem to recall you being very…satisfied.”
He snorts. “Is that what you call it?”
“I call it anticipating your needs.” I lean forward, capturing his eyes. “I call it coming apart in my arms. Tell me, Cord. Has anyone else ever made you feel that way?”
He swallows and looks away. “Maybe I need more than that.”
“What do you want, baby? Tell me and I’ll make it happen.”
“Don’t call me that.”
I bite back a smile. “I remember a time when you loved it when I called you that.”
“That was then. We’re not…together now.”
I don’t want to get into a blame game of whose fault that is. Things were said in anger, things for my part I wish I could take back. But that was a long time ago. “Maybe I don’t want things like they were.”
He looks at me, surprise registering in the blue depths of his eyes. “What do you mean?”
Time to put my cards on the table. If I scare him away, at least I’ll do it trying. “Think of it as Us 2.0. New and improved. I’ve changed. I’m sure you have, too. But what we had, what made us great together, that’s still there. I can feel it. I know you can, too. When I saw you last night, it all came rushing back. The need. The yearning. Thehunger. You’re like an itch I can’tscratch. And I realized how empty my life has been without you in it.”
I wait a beat. Wait for his reaction. For his rejection.
“An itch, huh? That’s what I am to you?”
I shrug. “You know what I mean.”
His eyes narrow, watching me. “Do I? Maybe that’s not how I feel. Maybe I can’t do it anymore. Maybe…maybe I’m broken.”
I frown. “Broken? Did someone…who hurt you? Tell me and I’ll kill them myself.”
He shakes his head. “It was you, you idiot. You’re the one who broke me.”
“Me?” No, that can’t be right. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. That’s just it, Asher. When you got money, youbecamemoney. You thought it would fix everything. And you looked down on me because I didn’t have it.”
