26. Tequila is the New Holy Water #2
Ron tilts his head just a fraction. His gaze doesn't waver. "Why are you avoiding me?"
"You already asked your question today. Now it's my turn."
He doesn't answer right away. The tip of his tongue darts out, slowly wetting his lower lip. I have no idea if it's an intentional move or just a conditioned reflex. I just know it's driving me insane. I just know it brings back the memory of... just how well he knows how to use that tongue.
A lopsided smirk curls his mouth. "So you're starting to like this game."
"Ron." It's a warning, but it sounds almost like a whine.
"My question can also be the answer, Selly," he murmurs, leaning a little closer over me.
"D-don't call me that," I snap, panicking.
My eyes dart around, scanning the room frantically, sweeping over the group near the couches. Like anyone hearing that pet name would instantly know. Like Ron just shouted that we had sex.
He notices. He smirks, the dimple carving into his cheek, and right now I really, really want to kick Ron Willers' ass.
"Why not?" he whispers, with a fake innocence that makes my blood boil. "I thought you liked it."
I want to kill him. But the devastating truth is that I also want to drown softly in him.
More. Tequila.
I am in desperate, urgent need of more tequila. My eyes dart past his arm, frantically searching for the bottle on the coffee table in the middle of the room.
But Ron doesn't let me. He lifts his hand and grabs my chin with two fingers. With a gentle push, he turns my face, forcing me to bring my eyes back to his clear blue depths.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks me, his voice stripped of all irony.
"I told you we weren't doing it again after last night," I hiss, my throat dry.
"And I told you I wasn't going to give up," he fires back, with a calm that terrifies me. His hand drops from my chin and settles on my hip.
"Great," I retort, lifting my chin. "Then we're both being consistent."
Except I'm lying.
"And I also told you," he continues, dropping his voice, "that you'd have to wait and see what I'm like when someone touches my woman..."
My eyes go wide. "What do you mean?"
His fingers squeeze my hip slightly. "I mean that that asshole Emerson has been trying to look up your dress for a while now."
I lean slightly; Ron is blocking him with his body.
Over his shoulder, I manage to catch a glimpse of Emerson.
He's sunk into the couch, his pelvis slid forward, sitting very low.
His head is tipped back. He isn't looking my way right now; he's distracted by Susan, who is handing him a bottle.
But then, almost stealthily, his eyes slide back toward the piano corner. Toward my legs.
So, maybe he really was looking at me.
"That's not true," I answer, pulling back, even though I'm not absolutely certain.
Ron brings my face back to his, blocking my view. His features are hard, his jaw set in a way I've never seen before. "Yes, it is. And I am this close to punching him in the face."
I nearly choke on my own saliva. I let out a half-laugh of disbelief, blinking. This... this doesn't even look like Ron right now. Ron is the sunny, smiling guy who plays with his dog. The guy full of dimples and sweet eyes who brings me coffee in the morning.
"Anyway..." I whisper, trying to scrape my self-control back together, "I'm not your woman."
"And that brings us right back to your question," he murmurs. "You didn't answer. Why are you doing this?"
He steps even closer. He's so close his face brushes my neck. I feel his hot, ragged breath wash over my sensitive skin, giving me goosebumps. Then, he tilts his head, and his lips stop a millimeter from my ear.
"If you don't want me, say so," he whispers, his voice scraping against my senses. "If you don't want me to touch you anymore..." His thumb starts moving up and down my hip in a slow, torturous caress. "If you don't desire me anymore, if you've had enough... say it. And I'll stop."
My panties are ruined.
My heart is going crazy, beating at a speed that makes my ribs ache.
"We can't do this again, Ron," I pant, my eyes closed.
"That does not mean that you don't want to do it again, Selene," he counters, relentless. "I told you I'll only back off if you don't want it. Otherwise... I'll keep trying."
His thumb keeps wandering. It slides higher, past my ribs, tracking dangerously right beneath the curve of my breast. I bite back a moan.
"Why can't we?" he whispers to me. And now, his voice, stripped of all its arrogance, sounds genuinely like a prayer.
"Because I don't want a relationship," I snap in a desperate whisper, opening my eyes to stare at his chest. "And doing it more than once, with you, sounds dangerously like attachment."
Because I can't keep being around you and not get attached to you. Because you are fucking with my head.
"There is absolutely nothing wrong with getting attached to someone, Selene," he answers softly, stopping his hand on my hip. "We aren't all complete bastards."
I close my eyes. Maybe I'd prefer it if he was. It would all be infinitely simpler if he were a self-centered, superficial asshole. If he just used me for sex and then went off to flirt with other women. Why does he have to be a good guy?
Haven't you had enough of certified assholes, Selene?
Yes, but... I know how to deal with assholes. With them, I know exactly what to expect: disappointment. With Ron, I don't.
"Or are you afraid that I am?"
His voice drops in volume. It becomes sweeter, softer, and slips right through the cracks in my armor.
I flinch.
That's exactly it. I am terrified he is. I'm afraid that none of this is real, that it's all just one massive, cruel illusion. That Ron Willers is really just another dickhead with a nice smile, ready to destroy me the second I trust him.