Chapter 11 #2
His praise pushes me over. I bite his shoulder, stifling the scream that rips out of me.
“Fuuuuuck,” Liam grunts as I go limp in his arms, my forehead on his shoulder.
He smells a little like me now—sex, sweat, adrenaline—but something underneath it is familiar. Something my body recognizes, even if my mind refuses to. It feels like safety.
The fog slowly lifts in my head, the space coming into focus, the sound of the highway sharper.
Oh my God. I lift my head, the window’s view grounding me in reality. My eyes collide with Liam’s, and panic slams into me so hard, I choke on it.
He still looks hungry—wrecked, ruined—but my body goes cold. I can’t let this mean anything. I can’t afford to want this.
He reaches to stroke my cheek, but I recoil, and like a spooked horse, I scoot away from him. After a spectacular high, the crash is mortifying.
I lift my hips, trying to adjust my skirt and ignore the wetness between my legs. I take three deep breaths before I chance a glimpse at the front. I sigh in relief when I find the partition is up.
Minor victories.
“This was a mistake.” The words clog my throat.
“Didn’t seem like a bad one when you came all over my pants,” he says dryly.
Tell me to stop, Thunder.
Unlike me, he had enough common sense to stop the madness. And he has the decency now not to throw that in my face.
“I don’t know what… why… I shouldn’t have—”
“Shut up, Thunder. You did nothing wrong, and this undue regret isn’t very sexy.” Annoyance laces his tone.
I turn to watch the darkness outside, as if that could somehow distance me from what I’ve just done, or this conversation. I’m not ashamed of the desire. I’m ashamed of having lost control.
“I’m not trying to be sexy. I’m trying to set the boundaries.”
“Aren’t we past that?” he says, unimpressed.
So him, and yet it hits differently. Like he is disappointed in me. Similar to the tone he used when he saw me dressed up in this stupid gray suit.
I turn to face him, and I’m met with a stony expression. Okay, that’s familiar; I can work with that. “This was a mistake. That partnership is very important to me.”
“How is that relevant?” He frowns. His shoulders stiffen as he gives me a one-sided smirk.
“You’re my competition. You stand between my present and my future. My goals. I’m not letting you screw that all up for me.”
Shaking his head, he now turns to face the road. “You really are not worth the trouble.”
His words should give me a much-needed reprieve. They don’t. They sting. Not only did they come as a cold shower on the heels of all the praise he bestowed on me, but the dismissiveness in them is too close to home.
Once again, a man makes me feel less than. Makes me feel like I’m too much. Like I’m too loud.
“Fuck you,” I snap.
“I’m available anytime, sweetheart. Though it doesn’t seem to relax you much.”
Tears prickle at my eyes, but I’ll be damned if I let him get to me. “I hate you.”
“You might hate me, but you want me as well. Evident from the mess we made, Little Thunder.”
I look at his pants. Traces of my arousal are on his thigh, but there is another stain closer to his crotch.
And the emotional roller-coaster keeps running, because for some fucked-up reason, it makes me feel better. “Did you?”
“Come in my pants? Yes, Thunder.” His voice is dangerously low now. The still-wet spot between my legs throbs. “Now you see what you do to me. Your pussy is my kryptonite.”
There is sadness behind the statement. I don’t understand it.
I swallow. I lick my lips. I take a deep breath. I’m hyper-aware of all my micro-reactions, trying to distract my mind and body.
Because as much as I want to fight it on the rational level, the attraction refuses to rest.
“Jesus,” I mutter, because this man robbed me of my vocabulary, and my ability to quip.
His chest rises and falls. His jaw ticks. His Adam’s apple bobs.
He flexes his fingers. That’s something he does often, but I haven’t deciphered the tell yet.
Why am I really fighting this attraction?
What? That’s not even a question. But if he wasn’t trying to buy the stake in Merged? I can’t allow myself that fantasy. Nothing good would come of it.
But the possibility still digs its claws into my resolution, questioning everything. Making me forget that I need to focus on myself.
Here I am again, not able to have it all.
“I humped your leg.” I try to regain my composure, find my gumption. “It could have been any leg.”
“Is that so?” he snorts, calling me on my bullshit.
“Liam.” I sigh, not even sure what point I want to make.
He holds my gaze. I wish I could understand what’s going on behind those penetrating eyes.
I don’t know how to interpret it. It scares me. Like the safety I momentarily felt in his arms is slipping through my fingers too fast.
He looks at me as if he doesn’t know what to do with me, and it pains him. Like maybe he doesn’t want to accept my decision, but he’s forcing himself to.
There’s no anger in his eyes. Not even the usual stonewall boredom, either.
It’s something quieter.
Resignation? Want? A flicker of something that looks horribly like understanding?
It rattles me more than any aggression would. Men like Liam aren’t supposed to step back.
They push. Demand. Take.
But he sits there, jaw tight, shoulders tense, looking like he’s swallowing words he’d rather spit. Instead, he’s accepting my boundary.
How the hell am I supposed to interpret that?
“We can forget what happened.” He shrugs. “If you want to deny yourself all the orgasms we could enjoy together, suit yourself.” There’s no smugness left. Just a tired softness that hits me low in the stomach.
He lifts my hand and brushes his lips over my knuckles, a gesture so gentle it knocks the air out of me. Before I can react, he lets go and turns to his window.
“Liam, even if…” I don’t want to voice the dangerous possibility. “We can’t… there is the no-fraternization policy…”
“I don’t care.” He keeps his gaze on the traffic, which has thickened since we approached downtown New York.
Why does it feel like I’m the only sane one here?
And why does being the sane one feel so lonely? And small? And wrong? “You must agree that this is a bad idea.”
“I don’t see it that way, but okay. I understand your objections. I don’t agree with them, but I see your point,” he says.
It should feel like a victory, but it doesn’t.
“So you will behave?” The lust-ridden part of me wants him to say no.
“I promise, Little Thunder.”
“Thank you.”
It doesn’t feel good, though.
I stopped this madness to protect myself, to make sure I don’t jeopardize my chances to break free from my family’s commitment.
So why does it feel like I’m betraying myself? Like I just slammed a door on something that could ruin me… or save me?