Page 77 of Caught from Behind

A shrug, her hand darting out to grab the cup.

I push it further away, draw her back against my chest. “What happened, baby?”

Her back arches, hips moving, ass rubbing against my crotch. I go hard in a second, even though some part of me feels sick at the thought of being turned on when she’s like this, when this is all twisted and fucked up and tarnished.

I’m not ready.

And this isn’t just tipsy.

This is drowning.

I clamp down the desire, the disgust, and focus on what’s important.

“Nothing happened,” she slurs, running a hand down my chest, my stomach, slipping fingers into the waistband of my sweats. “Nothing important anyway.”

The alcohol on her breath burns my nose.

I catch her hand, even though part of me wants to let it continue moving south, wants to feel her fingers wrap around my dick, wants to fuck that hot, slick mouth, then that tight, wet cunt.

The rest of me…

Can’t.

Especially when I say, “No, chérie,” and she fights against my hold, fights to keep touching me.

To keep taking what I don’t want to give.

Then it’s not desire and need warring with conscience and worry.

It’s keeping the past tucked away while dealing with the shit show of the present.

“No,” I say again, tightening my hold. “Ella,” I warn when she jerks her hand free, when she steps close and presses her body flush against mine.

It’s fucking perfect—soft and warm and beautiful.

And it’s fucking awful—drunk and not my Ella and laced with pain.

Mine and hers.

“Let’s go to bed, baby,” she says, lithe body undulating against mine, her hands tensing on my shoulders before one trails south again, nails biting into my chest, raking over my stomach. Her other slides up, scoring over my scalp.

I can fight her.

Or…I can let her win.

“Okay, chérie,” I murmur.

Her smile is beautiful…and wrong. Especially, when she snatches the mug before I can dump it out, draining it in a quick swallow.

“Jesus, Ella,” I say, drawing her close again when she stumbles.

“You’re sexy,” she slurs.

“Yup.” I scoop her up, hold her against my chest as I turn and carry her up the stairs. “Why are you drinking, chérie? What happened?”

She stills in my arms, and for one second her eyes clear. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispers. “It hurts.”

Damn.

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