Page 118 of Love Me Stalk Me
But she doesn't.
Instead, she lets out a slow breath and sets it down on the nightstand. The phone clatters against the wood, loud in the quiet apartment.
I watch her, waiting for the inevitable apology.
But for once, she doesn't say it.
Doesn't rush to explain herself.
Doesn't try to soften the blow for Evan.
A primal satisfaction settles low in my gut, something that whispers,Good girl.
I push the thought away, clearing my throat. The sound cuts through the silence.
"That's the first time you've ever stood up to him, isn't it?"
She presses her lips together. "Yeah."
"How's it feel?"
She tilts her head like she's actually thinking about it. Her dark waves fall across her shoulder, catching the amber light from the window.
Then, finally, she looks at me.
"Weird."
"Good weird?"
She sighs, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I don't know. Maybe."
The way her fingers slide through her hair captivates me in a way I should ignore. The delicate movement of her wrist, the slight arch of her neck.
But I don't.
I don't ignore the memory of her robe falling open earlier, revealing the curve of her collarbone.
I don't ignore the memory of her thighs against my shoulders when I lifted her—supple in a way that makes my mouth water. I don't ignore the way she's looking at me now, her expressioncautious and uncertain but still magnetic. I lean forward slightly, tilting my head. The mattress creaks under my weight as I shift closer.
And then, before I can stop myself, I say it.
"You like when people take care of you, don't you?"
She blinks, caught off guard. A blush rises in her cheeks, painting them a dusty rose. I reach out, my fingers wrapping around her wrist lightly. I pull her back down onto the bed, but I barely have to try. She all but falls into the spot next to me.
"What?"
"You like it," I say, voice soft but steady, close enough to feel her breath. "When people show up for you. When they tell you you're worth more than you think you are."
She exhales, shifting. The fabric of her sweatpants stretches across her thighs. "I?—"
"You don't get that with him," I murmur.
She swallows. Hard. The movement travels down her throat.
Her fingers tighten on the edge of her shirt, knuckles turning white against the burgundy fabric.
I watch her. Wait for her to deny it.
