Page 42 of Filthy Secret
“Fuck,” he hisses, finally speaking, still holding on to me.
My body is so limp that I can’t hold myself up. The only reason I’m not flat on the mattress right now is because he’s holding on to me. Then he leans over, and contrary to this entire encounter, he touches his lips to my shoulder in a sweet and gentle kiss.
Only then does he release me and slip out of my body. I don’t know what I expect to happen next, but it isn’t him lying down beside me then gathering me in his arms. My naked body is pressed against his side. I don’t question how I got naked, even though I know I went to bed in my pajama tank and shorts.
I’m hesitant to speak, to touch him, to even breathe.
“I’m not the same man I was when we met,” he murmurs.
The announcement doesn’t surprise me, but at the same time, I’m not sure what he’s trying to tell me. I don’t respond immediately. I shift and look up at him, resting my chin against his chest.
He isn’t looking down at me. He’s staring at the ceiling. “I realize you aren’t the same either,” he continues. “But I’m still angry with you. I don’t trust you.”
That is a blow, but not an unwarranted one, because he shouldn’t trust me. I am lying to him. I’m keeping a secret that I know could ruin whatever this is. If there is anything left of us aside from sex.
I’m still not sure.
It’s only been a few days, and while I can appreciate that he’s taken care of me even when he didn’t have to, I can also understand that he feels incredibly guilty because I came to him for help right before I was attacked, and he wouldn’t give it.
“You don’t have to do this, Grover. I know you’re angry, but you also feel guilty. If that’s all this is. A guilt thing. Then please just go. Adam and I have been on our own for six years. We can continue.”
The. Wrong. Thing. To. Say.
There is a heavy silence before I’m flipped onto my back and his hips are between my thighs. I’m sore and swollen everywhere. His eyes find mine and focus on my own as he watches me in silence. He’s pissed. It’s clear he did not like what I had to say.
“Bitch,” he snaps. I should be offended, but I’m about to pee myself, so I decide to forego the offense. “You think I’m in this bed, that you’re in this fucking house because I feel guilty?”
I blink, staring up at him. “Well, yeah,” I exhale, hoping that if I say the words quietly, he won’t be pissed about them.
It doesn’t work.
He’s no less pissed than he was a few moments ago.
“You’re fucking crazy, legs. I wouldn’t feel guilty about any of it if I didn’t want you here. The fact that I feel even remotely guilty is because I still want you. You’re mine, and I didn’t protect you because of my stubborn pride. But you really brought the whole fucking thing on yourself, so the guilt really isn’t at my feet.”
I don’t know how I feel about his words and the fact that he’s kind of right. I hate that. I sink my teeth into my tongue, not quite sure how to respond to any of that.
“Why are you so angry with me, then?”
“I’m not.”
His words come out harsh, and my brows snap together as I look up at him with confusion.
“I’m pissed at myself because I do care about you when I really fucking shouldn’t. You betrayed me, and I think you’re still lying to me. Keeping shit from me. I want to scrape your ass off and be done with you. Eleven fucking years and the sight of you still makes me hard as fuck. It shouldn’t. I should have already worked you out of my system, but I haven’t.”
Anger instantly fills me. I ignore everything he’s said and focus on one thing. “So you’re mad because you still find me attractive?” I ask.
He chuckles. “No,” he grunts. “If I only found you attractive, I’d hit it and quit it, then send you on your way with a little cash to get you out of my hair. But it’s more than that. You’re my woman.”
“You’re an asshole,” I grind out.
“No shit.”
God.
What a dick.
His lips slam down against mine. His tongue fills my mouth, and not for the first time, I forget what the hell we’re talking about. I forget that he’s an asshole, and I whimper as he kisses the absolute shit out of me.