Ruin My Life (Mangled Masterpieces #1)

23. Remy

23

Remy

I ’ve reread the same slide four times and haven’t retained any of it. They’re just words on a screen; a blur of lines and symbols and letters like hieroglyphs. Instead, I’m tuned into the physical manifestation of temptation.

About twenty minutes ago, Win kicked off his sneakers.

Ten minutes after that he extended a leg across the cushion.

Five minutes later he laughed at a video and pushed his toes into my thigh.

I swear he’s doing it on purpose.

His toes wiggle.

My eyes slide to him.

He bats his thick black lashes. “Hmm?”

“Cut the shit.”

A slow, devious smirk unfurls on his lips. “I’m not doing anything,” he shrugs, attention returning to his phone.

My glare narrows, but irritation doesn't last. I’m enraptured by the smallest facets of him. Like how his sharp canine pinches his lip when he's focused, or how the corners of his eyes crinkle when he's holding in a laugh. But the more I discover, the harder it is to look away. My hungry gaze strays to the ink on his neck disappearing into the collar of his tee…

“Like what you see?”

I blink back to reality.

Coal-lined grey eyes dance with heat and humor.

My gut screams, “ Deny! ” But my heart thumps harder and my eyes demand to continue their feast. Which they do against my wishes. Down his chest where the thin cotton of his shirt stretches tight over his pecs, each breath teasing the lean muscle rippling beneath.

There’s fire in my blood and it’s rushing south.

Flicking my gaze back to his, I find the humor has vanished. Longing and lust darken his irises. I can almost hear him whisper, Admit it, admit it, admit it.

I don’t think I have the power to lie.

My chin dips.

His pupils blow out.

As if not to spook me, he tucks his legs beneath himself and slowly rises on all fours.

Oh god.

I’m.

So.

Very.

Fucked .

Paralyzed in a body rising in temperature, my jaw drops because he’s crawling toward me with a dangerous look on his face. A gust of musky cologne is the first wave of warning. A lock of hair falls over his forehead as he closes the distance—

And sits on his heels.

I’m trying to calculate his next move when his fingertips brush my cheek.

I suck in a sharp breath. His gaze follows the path of his featherlight touch.

“I like what I see too.”

There’s not enough oxygen.

He surprises me again by sinking into the space beside me, resting his head on my thigh as he resumes his video.

I come out of hypnosis in pieces. The weight of him pressing into me and his occasional chuckles aren’t uncomfortable. Tension seeps from my muscles as I accept the feeling of his closeness. My hand falls to his hair, silky strands tangling between my fingers. He hums, rubbing his cheek on my leg like a fucking cat.

Being with him like this feels… good.

“You’re still on my shitlist,” I murmur.

“Uh-huh.”

I’m tempted to pull his hair but I know he’ll like it, so I flick his ear instead. He swats me off half-heartedly while mindlessly scrolling.

I click to the next slide. It’s pointless; I’m consumed. My pinky moves on its own, back and forth against his temple while I catch myself watching him out of the corner of my eye. He’s transfixed by a violinist covering a rock song.

“Do you still play?”

He stiffens slightly. “I’ve started again.”

“Why’d you stop?”

A long pause. His jaw rolls as if he’s chewing on the words.

“It’s hard to create something when you’re empty.”

The roughness of his voice slips a rope around my throat. For minutes on end, we sit with the heaviness of his admission. The organ in my chest squeezes painfully.

“Still have V?”

A nervous laugh, “Yeah. Pretty sure I’m on her shitlist too. ”

I crack a grin. “You’ve got some serious groveling to do, huh?”

His head tilts back and I’m caught off guard by the depth of sorrow in his eyes. Though, it’s not only sadness; hope sparkles like starlight.

“For the rest of my life,” he whispers.

Swallowing hard, I comb the inky strands from his forehead. Questions pile on my tongue, clogging my throat. What took you from me? Was it my fault? Was I not enough? Was I too much? Did it even have to do with me? Why couldn’t you tell me? Why that note? Why break our promise? Why break us?

But as badly as I want to shake the answers out of him, I’m terrified. Scared of the regret written in his features. Fearful of his quiet, remorseful acceptance, like the truth is worse than my wildest speculations. Like it’ll destroy me more to know his reasons rather than continue on ignorantly believing the story I’ve concocted.

An unfamiliar ringtone chirps. He swipes open a message; I can’t help reading over his shoulder.

Mom: Winnie, it’s getting late and you haven’t checked in. Are you ok?

Her text sits heavily in my gut. She’s worried he’s relapsing. Even though he spent years on the other side of the country, I can only imagine her constant anxious loop. Wondering if he’ll see the next morning. If he’s home or lost to oblivion. If his heart still beats.

I want to tell her I have him. He’s safe.

But who’s to say I won’t send him into a spiral? I’m not stable— quite the fucking opposite. Yeah, I’m medicated and studying psychology to understand the illnesses that plague our minds, but I chose this major more so to understand myself. To rationalize the madness that chews through me like a ravenous beast.

I’m not good for him. I never have been.

He sighs, thumbs tapping out a response.

Sorry. All good. I was keeping Remy company while he studied and lost track of time. On my way home now.

He sits up and the loss of his touch is like losing a limb. Stretching his long arms overhead, he yawns. Mitz pops her head up from beside him. When the fuck did she get there? I swear that cat prefers the bastard over me— the one who feeds and houses her.

He scratches behind her ears and smirks at me.

“I’ve been summoned.”

I roll my eyes, unable to suppress a huffed laugh. “You make it sound like you’re a demon or something.”

“Have you met me? I basically am.”

There’s no stopping my grin. “Touché.”

With a wink he stands and brushes cat hair off his jeans. It’s futile. I’m distracted by Mitz circling his legs and rumbling like a car engine when a shadow descends over me—

Win's hand braces the couch cushion behind me. Lips tickle my ear. “Thank you for tonight. It meant more than you know.”

Will I ever take a full breath again?

He softly kisses my cheek, lingering against my skin.

I’m floating and sinking. Falling and soaring. I’m about to cave— turn my face to swallow his sweet words and give into the desire coursing through my veins.

But he retreats, pausing on the threshold for one last look, grey eyes round with affection.

“Goodnight, Sunshine.”

The door clicks shut.

I turn to Mitz, groaning and tossing my laptop aside. She jumps out of the way with a high pitched yowl of annoyance as I flop on my back, shove a pillow over my face and scream, “God damn him!”