“Stop,” I snap—sharper than I mean, but I need the air, the space, the control. My hands yank free from his hair, fists curling at my sides as I drag in a breath, desperate to reset the pulse pounding through my veins. I crush the ache clawing at me, shove it down deep where it can’t reach him.
He rises slowly, tight-jawed, and silent, eyes boring so deep into me I fear he might reach my soul. His frustration simmers just beneath the surface, writ clear in every tense muscle, every shallow breath.
And yeah—he’s hard as hell, straining against his jeans like his body hasn’t caught up with the command to stop.
But he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t beg. Doesn’t move to touch me again.
He just watches.
And I wonder which one of us feels the fire more.
“We can’t. I can’t be hurt again.”
I don’t wait for his answer—can’t. I can’t look at that maddeningly perfect mouth, flushed and reckless from kissing me like it mattered.
I just move.
Past him. To Adam. Fingers curling tight around the rolling pin as I wrench it free from his throat, the sound guttural and wet. He gasps behind me, his eyes bloodshot and bulging from the suffocation, but I don’t turn. I walk. Out. Away. Letting Cameron finish what he started—whatever that is.
And I hate myself for it.
Hate that I’m running. That I ruined the only thing that’s made me feel anything close to wanted in longer than I want to admit.
But a man like him could never want a girl like me. That’s the truth, isn’t it?
He’s all clean lines and sharp certainty. I’m static—blurry at the edges, stitched together with stubbornness and too many apologies. I’d stain him just by standing too close.
Still…
The way he looked at me. The way he touched me.
Those moments—messy, breathless,real—they’ve sunk their hooks deep. And I know they’ll stay, lingering in the quiet. A flicker behind my eyes when I least expect them. I already feel them branded under my skin.
I need a drink. A stiff one. Maybe two.
And is it wrong—like morally, psychologically wrong—that while Cameron’s in the next room systematically annihilating my ex, all I can think about is how much charge my vibrator has left?
Something’s not right with me. Well—more not right than usual.
He’sliterallydestroying Adam in real time. Bones, ego, legacy—the works. And me?
I’m standing here flushed and breathless, haunted by the ghost of Cameron’s mouth on my skin.
What does that say about me?
Actually—I shouldn’t ask that of myself.
There’s no sound. Just stillness. A strange, suspended quiet pressing in around me—punctuated only by the soft shuffle of Boomerang, who’s apparently still hungry despite the apocalypse unfolding outside the door.
I pour more kibble into his bowl and watch him devour it, tail flicking, completely unbothered. He purrs like nothing in the world has changed. As if my ex is currently being murdered in the other room.
When he settles again, curling up with a sigh that sounds suspiciously smug, I move to the cupboards—hunting for anything strong enough to burn through the ache in my chest.
My hand lands on a dusty bottle. Some unnamed, angry-looking moonshine. I don’t sniff it. Don’t ask questions. I just pour it into one of the crystal glasses that doesn’t belong to me and throw it back in one swallow.
It scorches all the way down. Good.
I pour another.
