“You show up here, and have the nerve to try to weasel your way into my life, into my mind, like you have any right to be there after all this time. You have the nerve to judge me for who I hang around… you have the nerve to question my parenting, like I don’t know what’s best for my daughter!”
Something clicks with me when she says that, some of the fog lifting. “Jesus… is this about him? Hastings?”
“No, this is about you.” She points at me. “You and your innocent act… and your money, and your things. The words you say—the jokes, the laughs, the smiles you give her that she eats right up, and ugh, your face.”
“My face?”
“Your stupid fucking face,” she says, running her hands through her hair as she groans, those words startling me. Kennedy doesn’t curse. “Your face is everywhere. I’m sick of it!”
“You’re sick of my face.”
“Yes!”
“There’s not much I can do about that.”
“You can get out of my head,” she says. “Stop being there all the time!”
I laugh at that, because it’s so damn absurd, but that’s the wrong thing to do. Her eyes narrow as she stares me down, looking like she wants to hit me right now.
“I hate you,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’ve never hated someone as much as I hate you, Jonathan.”
Those words, they wake me right up. I’m no longer laughing. There’s nothing funny about it. I got under her skin, and with the two of us already on shaky ground, I know that’s dangerous.
She turns to leave, like she’s going to walk away, but I grab her arm to stop her. “Come on, don’t be like that…”
“Don’t touch me,” she says, ripping from my grasp.
I let go as I stand up, stepping toward her. “Just… wait a minute… talk to me.”
“There’s nothing left to say.”
“I’ll be goddamned.” I grab her arm again before she can walk out. “You can’t tell me you hate me and then leave. That’s bullshit. You bust up in here while I’m asleep to yell at me…”
“You deserve it!”
“Maybe so, but still…”
“Still nothing,” she says, turning to me again, getting right in my face. “I hate you. That’s it. There’s nothing else to say. I hate everything about you. Your voice, your face… I hate it. Why aren’t you going away?”
“Because I can’t,” I tell her, “and I’m pretty sure you don’t really want me to.”
She scoffs.
“You’re upset,” I say, “but you’re lying to yourself if you think you want me gone.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“Leave.”
“No.”
“Go away.”
“I’m not.”
As soon as that last word leaves my lips, she’s on me, slamming into me, her lips pressing against mine. She’s kissing me, and I’m so fucking stunned that it takes me a moment to react, a moment to consider kissing her back. She moans and wraps her arms around my neck, clinging to me damn near aggressively as she kicks the door closed.
There’s a bitter tang on her tongue.
In a daze, it doesn’t register right away, but the second that it does the world seems to stop.
I push away from her, breaking the kiss with a groan. “You’ve been drinking.”
She’s breathing heavily. Even in the darkness, I can tell her cheeks are flushed. Wide eyes regard me as she says, “It was just some wine.”
She doesn’t seem drunk, but well, there’s no way in hell she’s thinking clearly, not if what she’s thinking about right now is kissing.
But before I can say anything, she’s on me again, kissing, pressing against me and pushing me toward the bed. Whoa. She's not gentle about it. My ribs fucking ache. Her hands are all over, tugging at my clothes, a chill shooting down my spine when her warm fingertips reach bare skin.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I say. “We shouldn’t—”
“Just shut up,” she growls against my lips, hands winding through my hair, gripping it.
The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I fall back on it, dragging her down with me. Pain rips through my skull, damn near blinding, rivaling the burning happening in my chest.
I hiss. “Fuck.”
Her kiss grows harder, frenzied, desperation in her touch. She’s not slowing down, showing no signs of stopping. Every stab of pain strikes deep, getting me all worked up. My heart is beating a million miles an hour.
“You sure you wanna do this?” I ask when she straddles me.
Her voice is a breathy whisper when she says, “No.”
“Maybe we should stop.”
“Shut up.”
I laugh at that, shutting up, because I’m not going to argue. Maybe this moment is all wrong, and maybe it shouldn’t be happening, but there’s very little I want in this world more than I want this woman, so I'm not turning her down.
I drag her further onto the bed, struggling to keep a grip on her with one hand. Damn cast. Her hand slips down my pants, grasping my cock, and she strokes me, over and over.