Only to find out that my dad had gotten his wish and poisoned Brooks against me in the end.
Something is still banging… dull and distant. I think about punching the wall again, but that incessant thumping seems to get closer and closer, distracting me.
Then I hear a voice.
Harlow’s.
“Stone… open this damn door now.” More banging.
That’s her fist crashing against my door.
My anger doesn’t abate, but something else takes hold deep inside me, forcing my legs to move. I stumble out of the master bedroom and lurch down the hall like a drunk.
I jerk open the door, needing to bob my head backward to avoid Harlow’s fist in mid-flight.
“Jesus!” she exclaims as she takes me in, eyes round with worry. “It sounded like your place was being torn apart. Are you okay?”
Am I okay?
Fuck no.
Not okay at all.
There’s no accounting for the driving force behind my actions, but I step into Harlow, my palms to her face, and I pull her into me. I dip my head and kiss her hard, feeling my body go blissfully numb at the first touch of her lips against mine. In the back of my mind, I wonder if this is what it was like for Brooks to use alcohol to numb his pain.
The nothingness only lasts for a second, but the tempest of wrath that had hold of me a moment ago is replaced by pure lust.
Yes, this is exactly what I need.
One hand goes to her back, and I pull her in close, increasing my assault on her mouth. I have satisfaction when she returns the kiss.
Fuck… she even moans.
My other hand drops from her face to her breast, full and heavy under a very soft sweater that tickles my palms. It feels good, but I know her skin would feel better.
“Stop,” she says, tearing her mouth from mine and locking her hand around my wrist.
I look down at where she’s trying to pull my hand away, my knuckles dripping blood onto the cream yarn woven into a pattern with blues and grays.
And yet, I don’t move my hand. My gaze lifts, locks onto hers.
She appears slightly dazed—I hope it was the kiss and my touch that’s doing it. Surely, she doesn’t want me to stop.
I lean back in, attempting to capture her mouth again as I whisper, “Give this to me, Harlow. Let me have something good.”
It’s the closest I’ve ever come to begging a human being for anything.
“It might be good for you, but it won’t be good for me,” she says before my mouth touches hers.
I rear back, shocked by her words. My hand falls away, leaving a smear of blood on her sweater. I’m almost offended. “You can be damn sure it would be good for you.”
Harlow shakes her head, a sad smile playing at her lips. “I’m not talking about orgasms. I’m talking about my self-esteem. If I let you use me in this way, it won’t be good for me personally.”
It’s like a bucket of ice water dumps over me, and every bit of lust and desire evaporates.
On the plus side, so does my anger. It just empties and leaves me feeling weak and nauseated.
The way Harlow looks at me right now—pretty sure it’s pity—makes my stomach roll.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, taking another step back.
“It’s fine,” she assures me, reaching a hand out, perhaps to touch my arm.
I stumble away from her. “I’ve got to get to the arena.”
Harlow doesn’t move, and my eyes drop to her chest. “I got blood on your sweater. I’ll buy you a new one.”
Stupidest fucking thing in the world to say, but it seems to knock the pity off her face.
Instead, she becomes alarmed and tries to grab for my hand. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fucking fine,” I growl, pulling my hand away.
She freezes, eyes wide, and then warily takes a step back. “I’m sorry.”
My anger ignites again. It’s truly not because of her, but she’s the easiest target to direct it toward. “Why the fuck are you apologizing? I attacked you.”
“You didn’t attack—”
“Just leave,” I cut in.
She doesn’t move.
So my hand again goes to her chest, this time not in an erotic gesture but one of rudeness. I push her—gently, but firmly—until she’s forced out of my foyer and into the hallway.
It takes all my strength and power not to slam the door in her face, but it’s with resounding finality when I do shut it, her surprised expression the last thing I see.
CHAPTER 16
Stone
The Titans’ workout facility is housed within the arena at street level, one level below the main concourse and two levels above the basement locker rooms. It faces the river with the downtown cityscape behind it, the idea in mind to provide the players with an enhanced experience, given the amazing view. The glass is reflective and you cannot see in, so the players have privacy. It’s the same on the concourse above and the levels above that, plus the glass is energy and pollution efficient.