“You’re home,” I finally say, unable to find any other words.
He rubs his palm against his forehead, staring down at my covered body. “It’s been a long day. I think I’m just going to go to bed.”
I narrow in on him. He’s not acting like himself—no snide comments or teasing. I don’t like it. “Are you okay?”
“I will be,” he answers, connecting his eyes with mine. They’re a window to something much darker. I don’t know him all that well, but I don’t need to in order to recognize it.
This is new territory for me because if Blake were mine—really mine—I’d pull him in my arms and hold him tight until all the darkness disappeared. There has to be another way to make this better.
“Do you want to join me?” My voice shakes. Sharing a bath seems so intimate, but I can’t watch him stand there like that for much longer.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he assesses the bubbles again. I close my eyes because I can’t watch. One more second of this and I’ll be climbing out of this tub and wrapping myself around him.
“I can’t,” he murmurs right before the door opens and closes again.
Without any way to argue, I sag even deeper into the water. My chest tightens as I realize that I want to know more about him. I want to know what made him the way he is, why his moods shift like the blade of a windmill.
When my skin prunes, I grab a towel from the hook and climb out. It appears the only way I’m going to make this day better is to climb into my nice warm bed and drift off to dreamland.
I pull on a light blue camisole and matching pajama pants and run through my nightly bedtime routine before falling onto the pillow top bed.
Sleep doesn’t come as easily as I’d hoped. I’m tired, I feel it in every single muscle in my body, but my brain won’t shut off. It shifts from work to Blake then starts the cycle over again.
After trying with no luck for over an hour, I throw the covers off and stalk to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Before I get too far, the light shining under Blake’s door stops me. I swear he hasn’t slept in days, and God knows he needs it.
I carefully walk across the living room and put my ear to the door, hearing the faint sound of his paintbrush on canvas. I teeter between going in and just letting him be. It becomes an easy decision when I hear something crash to the floor.
When I open the door, my breath leaves me. He’s not okay. Not at all. He’s crouched on the floor, pulling his hair between his paint-stained fingers. His back is to me so I can’t see his face.
I chance a couple more steps, and he still doesn’t glance back. I’m suspended on a tight rope, and one wrong move will send me crashing to the ground. It’s the risk I’m taking—ending whatever Blake and I have before it even really starts.
“Blake,” I whisper, scared of disturbing something.
His shoulders sag further. I want to touch him, soothe his demons. He’s motionless, like a sculpture at the museum. I hesitantly kneel behind him, placing my palm in the center of his back. He flinches, yet I keep it there. Something deep inside tells me I should.
After seconds of nothing, I crawl to his side, trying to get a glimpse of his face. His jaw’s clenched, the muscles in his neck twitching. Somewhere under that anger is misery and heartache. I see it.
This man is drowning, and I’m trying to save him.
If only he’d let me pull him to the surface.
“Blake,” I whisper again, barely brushing the side of his cheek with the back of my fingers.
Instead of pulling away, he leans into my touch. For a moment, it’s as if I found him under the water, and I have some sort of grip on him. I want that to be true.
“You should go back to bed,” he finally says, his voice strained.
“You should go to sleep.”
“Lila, I’m not your fucking problem. You don’t have to be here.”
“I want to, and I’m not leaving until you sleep.”
He sighs, gripping my wrist to pull my hand from his face. Battles with Blake are always complicated, but this one might take the cake. He stands, careful not to look at me in the process, and hurries to his bathroom. If he wants, he can stay inside for hours, but I’m still going to be here, sitting against his bed, waiting.
Seconds later, the shower starts. I lay my head back against the mattress and do my best to evaluate everything that’s happened since I moved here . . . how lost I feel with Blake. The two things he’s made me feel are pissed off and turned on; the disparity between them frustrates me. This whole thing was a bad idea. Blake and I were never meant to be “us.” I was naïve to think I could do this without letting my feelings get in the way.
The water shuts off, and two minutes later Blake emerges wearing only a pair of sweatpants. When he sees I’m still in his room, he pauses, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Go back to bed.”
“I’m staying until you fall asleep,” I announce.
“I’m not sharing my bed,” he bites back, his large hands resting on his hips.
Frustrated, I stand in front of him. “I don’t want to sleep in your bed, Blake. I just want you to sleep. Period. When was the last time you slept?”
He grips my arms, bringing his eyes level with mine. “I’m not doing this with you tonight. Go. To. Bed.”
I’ve never had someone look at me like this. There’s a fuse on the verge of being flipped yet it doesn’t stop me.
“I don’t think you really want me to.”
His face twists. “The fuck I don’t.”
I wriggle my arms free, and cradle his face before he has time to react. He attempts to pull away, but I’m strengthened by determination. My lips search for his, and when we touch, I wait for him to give in. He needs this as much as I do.
His hands land on my shoulders. He pushes, but then my lips melt him. His rough fingers brush against my collarbone then slide up my neck. He’s conceding, and there’s no going back now.
As he deepens the kiss, I trail my hand down his stomach and slip it into his pants. He groans when my fingers wrap around his hard cock, and when I start stroking him, his breathing quickens. I relish in this—in giving a man like him pleasure. It does just as much for my self worth as it does his psychological wellbeing.
He’s going to be my vice and virtue all in one—my wrongdoing and good deed. Every game has a winner and loser, but when he’s buried inside me, the end game is the last thing I want to think about.
With a quick motion, I’m lifted into his arms and my back’s against the wall. He’s pressed between my legs, but I need more. Leaving one arm wrapped around me, he uses his free hand to pull the collar of my shirt down below my breasts, sucking my nipples with his perfect mouth. I move against him to satisfy my own need.
Blake lifts his head, his lips a mere whisper from mine. “What do you want, Lila? Do you want me to fuck you?”
I swallow, unable to find the right words. All understanding of what the hell I’m doing left me a long time ago.
He wraps my ponytail around his hand, using it as leverage to pull my head back. “Stand up,” he demands, never letting go of my hair. As soon as my feet find the floor, he pulls my pants down, covering my sensitive flesh with his fingertips. A few strokes and I’d be done for. He tugs my hair harder—it’s pleasure, not pain. My knees buckle. His fingers stall, but his hand is still on me. I want to beg him to do it all over again . . . I’d do anything.
“Do you want more?”
I nod. Another stroke.
“Fingers or cock, Lemon Drop?”
I hesitate for only a second, and he removes his fingers. Jesus, this is unfair.