There was drumming on the door.
I groaned, rolling over in my sleep. “Dakota, someone’s at the door.”
When I didn’t get a reply, I forced my eyes open a little, looking over to see her bed was empty, forgetting she’d decided to stay in Dion and Crew’s room tonight because Crew was back home again visiting his mom.
The banging started again, this time it was harder than before and more persistent.
Huffing in annoyance, I threw back the blankets and sat up, looking over at my alarm clock which read 6:00 a.m.
I’d only got in from working at Empire at 2:00 a.m.
And it was fucking Sunday.
“I’m going to stab someone,” I murmured, leaping down off the bed and trudging to the door. “This better be good,” I called as I flicked the lock and pulled the handle.
I didn’t even have time to be shocked.
Ham pushed his way in, forcing me backward. He breezed in, stealing the air from my lungs. I didn’t know what to say or do, and the look on his face told me that neither would have mattered in that moment because he was on a mission. His eyes were locked in on me like a target.
He pressed the dorm room door closed behind him and took a step forward. He still looked slimmer than usual, but better than he had been when I’d seen him almost a week ago. His lip was healed, there was no yellowing bruising across his face, and he wasn’t dressed in a prison jumpsuit.
This was my Ham.
Denim jeans, heavy boots, white T-shirt and club cut proudly worn over the top.
I should have told him to get the hell out, sworn at him, reminded him how much he hurt me. But all I wanted to do was touch him, and for him to tell me it was all some bad fucking dream.
Another step closer and the butterflies were back, swirling and dancing in my stomach, celebrating the return of this man who empowered me and made me feel beautiful. “What are you doing here?” I asked finally, trying not to let my voice sound weak.
I wasn’t weak.
These past couple months I’d found myself, stood on my own two feet.
I was stronger now than I was before because I wasn’t leaning on anyone expecting them to help me up when I fell. I wanted him to see the woman I’d become.
“I couldn’t fucking wait any longer,” he drawled, his hand reaching out, his fingers brushing the side of my face.
I allowed myself five seconds to just enjoy his touch, inhaling deeply as he ran his fingertips down the side of my face and along my jaw where he hooked them under my chin. His thumb swiped over my lips, and I had to mentally restrain myself from taking it into my mouth.
Five seconds were up, and I tore myself away.
He wasn’t surprised.
Or deterred.
Because he just followed.
I kept trying to put distance between us, but like two practiced dancers, we stepped in perfect time, me retreating, him refusing to let me go without a fight. With a hard thump, my back finally hit my bed, and I was trapped. I had nowhere to go, and he wasn’t about to let me escape—that predatory look returning to his eyes.
Even when I held up my hands to try and stop him, he just captured my wrists and pulled me back to him, forcing my arms behind my back. “Don’t try and run from me, Meyah,” he growled, dipping his mouth to my ear as I struggled against his hold. “There’s no more fucking running. You’re mine.”
My heart skipped, and I felt my body temperature rise.
How did you fight your own memories?
The ones where I knew if I just let him touch me, how good it would feel, and how much I’d desperately missed him. The fights we had were always short, because once he got his hands on me, I knew I’d feel better. Like nothing else mattered. Like arguing was a pointless waste of time together when I could have his lips on me, or his hands, or even just be laying here listening to him tell me about things which were important to him. Like baseball, or what his parents were like when he was growing up, or how he failed when he tried to ride a motorcycle for the first time.
“Stop,” I demanded, trying to fight to gain some of my composure back, reminding myself of the hurt he’d caused me, and of all the times I’d lay in this room crying for those first few weeks I was here, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I had those memories too.