fifteen #2
He closed the distance between us, two careful steps that brought him close enough that I had to tilt my chin to meet his eyes.
"I never wanted you to be invisible," he said. "That was never what this was."
"Then what even is this?" My voice rose. "Because it sure as hell doesn't feel like something real."
He didn't answer.
And maybe that was the only truth left between us.
I swallowed, gathering what was left of my composure. "I don't know what you thought you were protecting me from, but you don't get to decide that for me."
His hand lifted, like he might touch me. But he let it fall.
"I know."
"Good."
I started to turn away, but his voice stopped me.
"I lied because I cared more than I should have." he said quietly.
I met his eyes, my own tired in a way I hadn't known I could be. "That's not the comfort you think it is."
His mouth pressed into a hard line. "I know."
"You could have told me who you really were."
"I know."
"But you didn't."
He nodded once, as if he'd already played this scene out in his head a hundred times.
"I'm sorry," he said again, and this time, it sounded smaller. Less practiced.
I looked at him—at the crease between his brows, at the way his shoulders seemed to slope under the weight of everything he wasn't saying. And for a second, I wondered if he even liked the life he'd been handed.
It didn't matter, I told myself.
I had my own life to protect.
"Go home, Brooks," I murmured. "It's late."
He opened his mouth, like he might argue. But then he didn't.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then I turned away.
I didn't get two steps before his hand closed around my wrist.
Not rough. Not desperate. Just sure. Like he knew I'd stop if he asked.
"Don't," he said quietly.
I let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh. "Don't what?"
His palm slid higher, resting against the inside of my elbow. "Don't pretend this doesn't matter."
I looked down at where he was touching me. My heart was kicking against my ribs, furious and wanting. "It doesn't."
It was the first lie I'd told all night, and we both knew it.
He stepped closer, slow enough that I could have pulled away if I really wanted to.
I didn't.
"You keep saying that," he murmured, "but I don't think I believe you."
My mouth felt dry. "I don't owe you anything."
"I know." His voice was low, even. "You don't owe me a thing."
His hand lifted to my jaw, thumb tracing just under my bottom lip. "But you're still here."
And I hated how true it was—how I kept coming back to the same place, the same heat, the same disaster waiting to happen.
We stood like that for a long moment, the quiet stretching out, turning heavy.
When he spoke again, his voice had gone rough around the edges. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll leave."
I swallowed. The words were there, right on the tip of my tongue—I don't. I'm done. I'm leaving.
But they never made it out.
His thumb dragged over my lip again, slower this time. His eyes stayed locked on mine, dark and steady, like he could see every war I was fighting with myself.
"Say it," he said.
My mouth parted, but nothing came.
His hand slid down, fingers brushing my collarbone, lingering there. "Say it," he repeated, softer.
Instead, I lifted my chin. My voice was steadier than I felt. "You're still lying to yourself if you think this fixes anything."
A muscle in his jaw ticked. "I'm not trying to fix anything."
"No?"
His hand slipped lower, resting at the base of my throat. Not squeezing—just there. A reminder. "No."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
His eyes searched mine for a long moment. "Remind you."
"Of what?"
He leaned in, his mouth brushing the edge of my jaw, his voice a low rasp against my skin. "That you want me just as bad as I want you."
And God help me, he wasn't wrong.
I didn't have time to respond.
He kissed me.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't careful.
His mouth claimed mine in a way that felt inevitable—like we'd both been heading toward this from the second we met.
I should have pulled away. I should have shoved him back and told him to go to hell.
But I was so tired of being careful. So tired of pretending I didn't want the one thing guaranteed to break me.
So instead, my hands fisted in the front of his shirt, dragging him closer.
He kissed me deeper, one hand sliding to the nape of my neck, holding me there like he knew I'd run if he let go. My back hit the wall with a soft thud, but I barely felt it over the heat flooding my veins.
When he finally pulled back, he didn't give me space to breathe. His mouth moved to my throat, a slow drag of heat that made me shiver.
"Still want me to go?" he asked against my skin.
I hated how unsteady my voice sounded. "You're an asshole."
His mouth curved. "That's not a no."
I didn't answer.
Because we both knew it wasn't.
His hand skimmed down, slow, until it found the hem of my dress. He paused there, waiting. "Tell me to stop."
I didn't.
Because wanting him was easier than wondering why I couldn't ever seem to walk away.
His hand slipped beneath the fabric, warm and sure, fingers tracing the lace that barely covered me.
"You were going to walk away," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "And pretend you didn't want this."
I closed my eyes, swallowing hard. My heart felt like it was beating in every part of me.
"You were going to pretend," he said again, his tone soft and cold all at once. "You were going to tell yourself this doesn't matter. Like we both don't know better."
I hated him for being right.
I hated myself for needing it anyway.
His mouth found mine again. Slower this time. Meaner. Like he knew exactly how I used this—how I needed it to drown everything I didn't want to feel.
He kissed me until I was breathless, my hands pressed flat to his chest like they didn't know whether to push or pull.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured. "Say you don't want this."
I didn't.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, unflinching. "That's what I thought."
The cool air hit my skin. The tiny scraps of lace did nothing to hide how much I was already unraveling.
His gaze moved over me, slow and deliberate. No softness. Just heat.
His thumb traced the line of the garter strap at my thigh. "Turn around."
I hesitated—just long enough for his hand to close around my hip, steady and unyielding.
"Turn around," he said again, quieter this time.
And this time, I did.
I turned slowly, my palms finding the wall in front of me. The painted plaster was cool under my fingertips. Grounding in a way nothing else was.
Behind me, I heard the soft scrape of his shoes on the floor, the quiet drag of his breath as he took me in.
A beat passed.
Then his hand slid up my spine, slow enough to make my skin tighten with every inch. He stopped at the nape of my neck, fingers pressing in, anchoring me there.
"You think you have any idea what you're doing to me?" His voice was low, threaded through with something I didn't name.
I didn't answer.
Because if I did, I might say I'm doing it to myself.
His other hand slipped around my hip, palm splayed flat over my stomach. He pulled me back, just enough that I could feel the hard line of him through his slacks.
"Say it," he murmured, his mouth near my ear. "Say you don't want this."
My breath shivered out of me. "I hate you."
He let out a soft, humorless sound. "That's not what I asked."
I didn't have time to come up with anything else to say.
His hand moved lower, between my thighs, the slow stroke of his fingers over silk and skin making my knees nearly buckle.
"You hate me," he repeated, his tone almost conversational. "But you're shaking for me."
I swallowed, pressing my forehead harder into the wall. My body was a traitor, same as it had always been.
He moved the scrap of lace aside. His fingers slid over me—one slow, testing stroke that made my hips rock forward before I could stop them.
A low, satisfied sound rumbled from his chest. "Just like that."
I bit down on my lip, refusing to make a sound.
He did it again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb circling in a way that made my breath hitch.
My hands curled into fists against the wall. I couldn't tell if I wanted to shove him away or pull him closer.
His mouth grazed my shoulder, warm and careful in contrast to everything else. "Tell me to stop."
I didn't.
Because this was the only thing that ever felt simple.
My throat worked, but the only sound that came out was a broken gasp.
He exhaled like he'd been waiting for that.
His voice dropped, low and certain. "Stay right there."
I didn't answer. My breath was coming too fast, my skin too hot to pretend I was still in control.