Chapter 20
Tilly
It takes carrying Donovan upstairs, accidentally waking him up, hiding in the bathroom to nurse him in the dark until he passes back out, and settling him into his crib for me to process what just happened.
Blaise Sinclair is actually insane.
For real insane.
That’s something an insane person does.
And to attempt to lie like that, like he doesn’t get paid millions of dollars every year to throw footballs halfway across the field with surgical accuracy?
Although I can’t for the life of me figure out where all that money goes when he was actually bitching about the price of eggs this weekend and seemed to imply it was my fault he decided to only get a dozen when he’s been going through at least two dozen every week.
Insane. All of that.
And cruel. And pointless. And so incredibly confusing.
Nothing about what’s happened since Donovan arrived with Blaise in tow has made a lot of sense.
I’ve had to accept a lot. A lot of what I’ve had to accept is bad, but it’s been worth it because even now, two months later, finally in the best health I’ve been in since starting chemo, I know I can’t do this by myself.
I’ve always known this.
I don’t know why I let myself get to this point, but at least there seemed to be a truce between Blaise and me.
I thought he was getting over whatever slight he’d perceived.
Yeah, he still glared at me at the most random times, the times when I thought we were really getting along, but we’ve been precariously stable. But now? I think . . .
I think I can’t keep doing this with him.
It hits me at the same time that something hits the trash can, and I look up in time to realize that Blaise has just thrown out the new wig Emerson brought me.
It wasn’t even one of the things he took me shopping for.
It was a really nice lace-front that he brought simply because I’d mentioned to him how out of place I was feeling now that I’ve been pulled into Joss’s football mommy circle.
Everyone’s just so polished, with only Cadence breaking the mold with her gently purple but perfectly styled hair.
But even Cadence is trying to hit an aesthetic that doesn’t match her past — half the time I see her, she has concealer on the tiny star tattoos she has near her hairline — and I’m stuck in either costume wigs or slouch caps.
“Get out,” I whisper, my voice flat, but it’s not even to keep from waking Donovan. Blaise is a psycho, and I need him to go. The wig’s bagged, so I can get it out of the trash after he leaves. I don’t need to know what possessed him to throw it out. I just need him gone.
I expect a fight from him. I expect frustration or anger. I expect him to belittle me or gaslight me.
I don’t expect him to reach me in three long slides and force me all the way back to the wall with a hand positioned just right over my collarbone that I can feel the pressure on my throat without the fear that he’d actually choke me.
And yes, there’s anger in his smoky eyes. It’s rare we’re this close and eye-to-eye; it always unnerves me when it hits me that they’re the same color as Donovan’s biological father’s, although I never once saw anger in his eyes. Only affection. And lust.
I swear I’m seeing that same lust in Blaise’s eyes now, but that’s impossible.
Or maybe it’s the reflection of mine in his.
He’s so close, and he’s breathing so hard, like he’s just gotten a great work-out but he’s ready to go again.
His natural musk pairs well with his aftershave, which comes in an unlabeled bottle, so I’ve only ever been able to guess at its woodsy notes and its faint floral kick.
Frustration comes in all flavors, and there comes a point where it’s hard to distinguish between them.
I need him to go.
I need him to figure out what he’s been doing here this whole time.
But I also just need him to need me in some way that makes sense. Bodies touching bodies makes sense.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says in a voice so soft and deep it comes out as a growl.
My entire body hums at his warmth covering me.
Pure, raw energy leeches from him. He’s one of the hottest guys in the entire NFL; this is widely agreed on.
It’s only ever served to inflate his ego and get him into incrementally bigger trouble, as it’s clearly turned him into a barely-hirable megalomaniac despite also being among the best quarterbacks today.
All that makes me think he doesn’t need to work to get women and doesn’t need to put much effort in once he’s gotten them.
But that energy I’m getting from him, that same unbrandable frustration that could be hate as easily as it could be lust, tells me he’s a monster in bed.
I can’t keep living on eggshells trying to figure out what Blaise wants. Better to rip that band-aid off and finally figure out how to be the person I swore I’d be for Donovan.
“I hate you,” I whisper, telling myself my voice is weak because of the way Blaise holds me.
“Not as much as I hate you,” Blaise growls.
“You need to leave.”
He leans his weight into me, letting me feel every inch of his muscular frame.
The softness of the last couple months has firmed up since he’s been going to the training center.
He might not be ready for any shirtless thirst-trap photo shoots, but nothing about the body pressed against mine is soft.
Nothing.
Oh, shit.
“I need to claim what’s mine,” he says, his voice silkier but with a bit of grit to it that I feel when he dips his head down to nip my earlobe.
“Blaise—” I start to protest, but he cuts that off.
“I paid my dues. I own you fair and square.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but I can’t do anything to get my breathing under control or quell the heat blooming in my cheeks as I spit out, “You don’t own me.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You sold yourself to me. Donovan is mine. You’re mine. And you should be thanking me that I’m not punishing you more for the stunts you’ve pulled.”
This time, I really do push at him, spluttering, “Stunts? What are you talking about? I didn’t sell—oww!” This time, when he bites my ear, it hurts.
He slaps his hand over my mouth. “You are not waking my son right now. Got that, you little whore?”
“I’m not a whore,” I mumble against his palm, but I can’t make it sound convincing when my entire pelvis pulses at the insult.
John wasn’t the last man I had sex with.
There were two others, a coworker and a stranger I met at a bar, both when my pregnancy hormones were raging and I just needed something to take the edge off.
But John was my last real connection, and those physical similarities between Blaise and John are messing with me.
Whore is a horrible word. Blaise, utter ass that he is, probably means it. But that was John’s game. He called me that so many times, and every time was hotter than the last.
Blaise forces his knee between my thighs, pushing it right up to my center.
I close my eyes, breathe him in, and grind. I can’t help it. I’m a mess. Everything’s a mess. I haven’t even touched myself since having Donovan, but Blaise somehow knows my buttons. Somehow, he knows exactly what I am when he says, “Did you whore yourself to that man, Tilly?”
He rolls his knee, and I moan against his hand as I nod. I’m too sensitive for this right now. He’s going to break me.
And he’s right.
“But you’re my whore now, aren’t you?”
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. I can’t breathe, and it has nothing to do with where his hands are.
He’s insane. This isn’t changing my mind on that.
But I tell myself not to read too much into his words, and I can’t stop myself from doing it anyway.
I open my eyes, meet his, knowing I’ll see hatred and cruelty.
Except I don’t. I see fire. Rage. Desperation.
He’s insane. His stupidity with Emerson was borne from insanity. But deep at the heart of it was jealousy, as obvious as the green corona that usually zigzags around the outer edge of his irises but is now hugging his dilated pupils.
He’s jealous of Emerson.
I close my eyes and pray that I’m making the right decision when I nod.
He groans, and then his hand is replaced by his lips, his mouth crashing over mine.
His hands are all over me. My hands are all over him.
Ten minutes ago, I was wondering if I’d ever be interested in sex again, and now I’ll die if I don’t get it.
His kisses bruise. His teeth chomp down on my lip, making me whimper, only for his mouth to close over mine to swallow the sound.
He grabs my dress like he’s going to pull it off me, and I slap his hand away.
He backs off for half a second, just to cast a quick glare at me, only to then flip up the nursing flap, baring my breasts.
He mashes one giant, firm, engorged handful, and I have to bite my own lip to keep from squealing at the sudden sharp pain.
He lets go, but I don’t want that, so I make a grab for his pants. He pretty much lives in joggers, and I can dive right into the elastic.
He smashes his lips into mine again and pinches my nipple, but that doesn’t distract me from the absolute handful I pull out of his pants. He groans at my exploratory stroke, the sound pulsing when I go back down to run my palm over his balls.
He nuzzles at my throat just so he can murmur, “Such a good whore you are.”
“Fuck me,” I whimper, praying he’ll never ask about why that word works so well on me.
He reaches under my skirt and tugs my panties down. Two fingers go right into me, not the greatest of foreplay, but I know what this is. It’s going to be hot and fast, and he’s probably going to blow his load two pumps in, and I’m not even going to care.