Page 24 of Watch Me

It’s so strange when you have those moments in life where everything works. When things turn out just as you want them to. I’m standing in Nick’s arms, blinking up at him like a lovesick girl, and there isn’t anything on the planet I want more than to stay here with him, alone. It’s almost too easy. And when I clock the heat in his eyes, the way they seem blacker than ever, it feels much too good to be true.

I become more aware of the points on my body where we connect and I can’t help but move into them a bit. I lift my chest just a small amount until my breasts are brushing against him. My hips tilt forward until my lower stomach is pressed against his. I know what I’m doing, and there’s a part of me that blazes with shame about it, but my body has a mind of its own. I’m taking my shot, even if he is the most inappropriate person for me to want as much as I do. My self-control goes out the window when I’m close to him. He is a drug.

His response is immediate. Heat flames in his eyes, a muscle in his jaw ticks, and he lifts one hand to my jaw, holding me tightly—too tightly—with an aggression that should be frightening. He steps forward, forcing me back, and suddenly, my back is against the wall. He’s pinning me to it, his thumb and forefinger digging into my jawbone. His nostrils flare, teeth grinding, and my heart is hammering with excitement. He’s a man possessed, control slipping, that cool exterior cracking to reveal something ruthless and dangerous within, but I’m not scared at all. I’m turned on as fuck.

I want him. I want him so bad, consequences be damned. I can’t lean forward to kiss him because he’s holding me against the wall, so I lift one hand, hoping to pull him towards me, but his free hand clasps my wrist with breathtaking speed and pulls my hand back down, pressing my palm against the wall behind me.

Then he frowns, thick, dark eyebrows knotting over those coal-black eyes, and presses his forehead against mine.

“Zoë,” he exhales, in a rough, pained voice.

And suddenly I know what’s coming next. Just like it always was with Tate.

That was the moment, and now it’s over.

“You can’t,” I say for him, and sigh.

He loosens his grip on my jaw, drops his hand, and hovers just like that for a second, with his forehead pressed to mine, his lips just an agonizing inch away, and then he pulls back. He stands straight and blows out a heavy breath, and then he’s completely transformed, the fire that was burning him up a second ago extinguished by cold, wet self-control.

“I’m sorry.”

Tate has pulled away from me a hundred times. I couldn’t be more used to it. And unlike Tate, Nick has good reason. But the rejection rips through me nonetheless, laced with humiliation.

I’m coming on to my boyfriend’s father the second my relationship hit a rocky patch, and I suddenly see myself as Nick must see me. More than just a foolish child: stripper, wanton slut… whore.

“I should go,” I say, lifting my chin and trying to summon the remaining shreds of my pride.

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s late. Please, let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

The urgency in his eyes gives me a flicker of foolish hope. He wants me to stay, and, despite feeling embarrassed, I want that, too. I’m not ready to say goodbye to Nick, no matter what that means. I’m so desperate to be close to him that talking about it tomorrow sounds pathetically promising. At least I’ll see him.

So I nod.

He runs his hand through his hair as I pick my bag off the floor and turn to the basement door.

“Good night, Nick,” I say with as much sangfroid as I can muster.

“Good night, Jumping Bean,” he replies, in a voice so heavy that tears prick my eyes.

NICK

I SWEAR TO God I have good reason for creeping down to Zoë's room in the middle of the night.

That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway, as I step quietly down the stairs and hesitate in front of the apartment door.

The muffled sound that woke me up is definitely coming from the apartment, but it’s not voices, as I first thought. It’s music, playing much too loudly.

I assume it’s Tate, come home in the night, and it’s a worrying thought given the close interaction I had with Zoë this evening in the kitchen. I wasn’t thinking. If Tate had walked in when I had her pressed against a wall, it would have been impossible to explain.

If it had gone further, he could have walked into something that would change everything between us forever. I’m relieved I managed to stop myself before I went too far because I was so close to losing control that, for a moment there, I didn’t know if I could restrain myself.

It’s not like me to be so volatile. So rash. Even now, I need to consciously brush aside the memory of Zoë's body pressed against mine as I stare at the doorknob. The idea that Tate may have returned home is a stark reminder of how much I need to regain my self-control.

That’s the funny juxtaposition of being a Dominant by nature and a so-called control freak. My composure is only a thin veneer—under the surface, my blood boils and spits like lava. There’s a wildness inside of me that always threatens to break through and spill over. It’s a mastery that takes constant work, but in the chaos of the world outside and the world inside, self-control is the only solid thing I can hold on to.

I remind myself that this is a fact-finding mission and nothing else, and soundlessly turn the doorknob and push the door open.

If Tate is home, I need to know. I need to be prepared before I run into him, and I need to think about what I want to say and how I want to act.

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