Chapter 22
Chris
After meeting most of the other guests, and dancing with half the rugby team, I decide to go to the bar for a break. I order a rum and coke and casually – well, almost – take a seat on a stool that’s a little too tall for me.
I watch the room: the guests, the happy, party atmosphere, and I tell myself that I’ve made a good choice in coming here and ignoring him.
I didn’t even notice him. He doesn’t exist.
Shit. That’s a lie.
He was the first thing I noticed as I came down the stairs, sitting alone at the bar, trailing his bottom lip on the floor, as if he’d been forced to come along – just like when I force Evan to do something he doesn’t want to do.
I realise that’s not the best comparison to make: comparing Ryan to my son, a man to a teenager. Maybe it’s because Ryan O’Connor barely acts like a man.
Okay, that’s another lie.
Ryan O’Connor is a man. And what a man.
Nope, I didn’t notice him at all. I didn’t notice his blue shirt, with the sleeves pushed back to his elbows, showing off his muscular biceps.
I didn’t notice his tightly-fitting jeans, like a second skin against his firm legs.
I also didn’t notice his light hair falling messily over his forehead, or his sexy beard.
Or his penetrating blue eyes that could make ice melt.
Nope. I didn’t notice any of it.
I take a few sips of my drink as Riley waves at me from across the room, pressed up against Ian on the dancefloor. They’re beautiful. Perfect. In love.
I’m not jealous, though.
I put my glass back down on the bar as a hand grabs me forcefully, making me jump.
“What the hell…?”
“Let’s go.”
“Sorry?”
“Come and dance. With me.”
“Have you hit your head? I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You really are a—”
“A dickhead? A bastard? Whatever you like. But you’re going to come and dance with me now, and I won’t ask again.”
“You’re impossible, you know – you’re…”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he concludes, before dragging me across to the dancefloor.
“You’re controlling, obnoxious…”
“Whatever you want,” he says, tightening his grip on my wrist. “Just dance.”
I give in – or, my body gives in. How could I control him?
Ryan pulls me against him. His body is exactly like I imagined: as hard as marble, maybe harder. His hands keep me bound to his body. It’s not intimate – it’s irritating, possessive – but I like it.
I must be completely mad.
It isn’t really a slow song, but it has a certain sensual rhythm, making me abandon myself to him. I let him slide his hands down my back, the heat and pressure of his fingers on my body making me lose control.
I can feel his desire through his shirt. He’s radiating an unbearable heat that almost burns my skin, despite the two layers of clothing between us.
He’s tense, nervous, almost uncomfortable. There’s no movement in his arms. He won’t look at me, doesn’t want any real contact. His mind is somewhere else.
He’s completely elsewhere.
He’s not really here with me.
It’s as if Ryan O’Connor is an empty shell, as if he’s sold his soul. As if he’d lost part of himself out in the street – and, despite myself, I want to know why.
“Why are we dancing?” I ask him, suddenly.
“What?” He looks at me.
“You don’t really want to dance with me.”
“Looks like I do, doesn’t it?”
“You’re not really here, though.”
“What the fuck does that mean? I’m holding you, can’t you feel it?” He squeezes my hips, but this time his touch frustrates me.
I pull away from him and his stare darkens.
“What are you doing?”
“I thought I made it clear.”
“You’re the one who asked me to dance – actually, you forced me to.”
“Oh, come on. Didn’t you want to?”
“I what…?”
“Don’t pretend with me, Christine. I know exactly what you’re looking for, so here I am. Wasn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t it what all you women want?”
“You have no idea what I want, and you can’t compare me to anyone else. You don’t even know me!”
“Exactly: I don’t know you. But I don’t have to. We both know how this is going to end.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“All you want is someone to fuck.”
I push him away, quickly.
“You really are a bastard, you know that?”
“Don’t you women like it like that?”
“Can you stop talking about all women? I’m me, and no – I don’t like bastards.”
“Or maybe you were just interested in someone else – my brother, for example.”
“Go fuck yourself, Ryan.”
I sprint off the dancefloor, desperately searching for the toilets so that I can cry in private.
I realise it makes no sense. His words shouldn’t hurt me, I barely know him. We have nothing in common, nothing to talk about – but I still feel like an idiot, like a poor deluded girl who thought that maybe…
Ryan O’Connor isn’t what I thought. He’s worse. Much worse. He’s a fucking heartless bastard, and I have no intention of letting him toy with my heart.