Page 48 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
I smile into the dark. “Very funny. Answer the question.”
He shifts his weight, adjusting his arm so that his left hand lies flat against my belly. He pulls me closer to his body, sealing any gaps between us, until we’re fused from top to toe. His bare feet tangle with mine. He lowers his mouth to my neck, to the place where it meets my shoulder, opens his lips over my skin, and bites me, just hard enough to sting.
His voice husky with want, he says, “The answer is no. Now stop talking because it’s taking every ounce of strength I have not to tear off your panties and your stupid ZZ Top T-shirt and fuck you, Chloe Anne with an e, until we both come so hard we pass out.”
I bite back a moan. A shiver of desire runs through my body, followed by blossoming heat. My nipples are so hard they could cut glass.
Apparently my brain also decides it’s time for a nap, because I breathlessly ask, without a hint of hesitation or shyness, “You want to fuck me?”
His answer is a low, dangerous growl. His hand on my belly spreads wide. His fingers dig into my flesh.
I can’t help it; I arch against that hand.
His reaction is instantaneous. His entire body stiffens. His arm becomes an iron band around my waist. His right hand fists into my hair. He hisses, “More than I want my next breath. But I won’t. I never will, you understand? Never.”
That hurts so unexpectedly, I suck in a breath. I feel like I’ve just been punched in the stomach. “Why not, because I won’t charge you for it?”
My bitter dig only seems to make him sad. The tension drains from him. He releases his grip on my hair, and gently combs his fingers through it, fanning it over the pillow. “No, Princess,” he whispers. “Because I’m not that goddamn selfish.”
I lie there in silent misery for a few seconds, blinking back tears. I don’t know what he means, and I’m too mad to care. Right now, I just want him to leave so I can rub one out, cry into my pillow, and call it a night.
Behind me, there’s a deep sigh. His hand on my stomach slides over my waist, and he begins to caress my back. “It’s just over two hours before your alarm goes off. Get some sleep.”
I tuck my head into the space between the crook of his elbow and the pillow beneath. I’m hiding. “You know what time my alarm goes off?”
His hand doesn’t falter. He just rubs me, slowly, his strong fingers kneading the tense muscles of my neck and shoulders, his palm following the line of my back down to my waist, then up again. It’s a nonsexual touch, but I’m aroused by it. Even though I’m mad and exhausted, I’m still aroused.
He murmurs, “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, songbird. Just go to sleep.”
Songbird. I think of the origami birds, the beautiful, painstakingly crafted birds. In the dark, my heart sings.
“I have something to say. It’s not a question,” I hurry to add, as his hand freezes.
He waits, listening.
I blow out my breath, hard, and bury my head deeper into the pillow. “I’m mad at you right now. And I’m so freaking confused my eyes are crossed.”
I feel his head move closer to mine. His forehead touches my shoulder. He whispers, “I know.”
“But . . .” My voice drops. “I’m glad you’re here.”
For this, I’m rewarded with my first-ever kiss from A.J. It’s feather soft and achingly sweet.
It’s on my shoulder.
Who are you? I drift as his hand continues to caress my back. Its warmth and softness soothe all the ragged edges that he’s torn just by showing up, by being his incomprehensible self.
Unexpectedly, I fall asleep.
When the alarm jolts me awake at four, the space beside me in bed is empty. On the pillow next to my head sits an origami bird, white with its head tucked under its wing.
A dove. Sleeping. It’s made of the same plain white paper I use in the printer on my desk.
I touch the sheets where A.J. had lain.
They’re still warm.
I’m in a fog of sleep deprivation and hormonal overload all the next day at work. I can’t concentrate on anything. When the phone rings at three o’clock, I answer robotically, without my usual chipper, please-be-calling-to-spend-thousands voice.
