Page 24 of Fool's Gold

He maneuvers me under the spray again and physically ducks my head to wash away the shampoo. The movements soothe the ragged edges inside me. I’m not a child, but it’s so nice to have someone take care of me this way.

I wonder if it’s the same for him.

The motions aren’t necessary as he strips me down to my bra and underwear, keeping his own clothing on. The physical act of cleaning me is a release for both of us, and under the pulsing stream of water, my buzz slowly evaporates.

A fire lights inside me, and I turn around in his arms, swallowing over my next hiccup. There’s only him, his hair dripping wet and his eyes dull and dark. They heat when he finds me staring at him, and he brushes another piece of hair away.

It’s my turn to grab him. Like something has come over me, another person is working my limbs as I reach up to his face and loop my arms around his neck to pull him down to me.

“I need you,” I whisper, the pulsing water carrying the sound away. “Please. I need you.”

So badly. Even though I hate this side of me, I hate wanting him because it’s him, and no one impacts me the way he does. He’s the center of the damn universe, and I’m orbiting around without hope of it ever ending.

Marcus pulls away. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Please.” It hurts to beg, and I can’t stop that, either. “I need you. So badly.” What’s it going to take to make him understand?

I lift on my tippy-toes to press my lips to his, absorbing his frustrated exhalation.

“You need to stop,” he mutters through kisses.

I grip his shoulders. “Why?”

Why do we always stop? Why is it never the right moment for us to actually go and cross the finish line?

I’m frantic, pressing my mouth to his, massaging our lips together, and groaning when he sweeps his tongue inside my mouth.

“Empire.” He gently pulls away and turns his face to resist my next kiss.

My stomach drops. Then he has hold of my hands again, physically turning me away from him like he’s too chickenshit to look me in the face. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

My head spins, the world tilting again as he brushes a hand down my spine. Bubbles trail his next swipe, and I’m about to turn around and go for his belt when he gently massages a knot in my shoulder with firm, rhythmic circles.

He resists me, every time.

Once he cuts off the water, he dries me off with an oversized towel.

I’m so small next to him. And weak. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this weak before, but there are a lot of things money can’t buy, and one of them is control in love. His name is past my teeth, but Marcus keeps his gaze averted as he carries me into his bed.

“This isn’t the right time,” he tells me softly.

His mattress is a cloud brought down to earth, and the sheets smell like him. I can’t even get a good look at the room before the world narrows. There’s only Marcus.

“It’s never the right time.” It’s the same argument repeated time and again.

The hatred is back when he bends down to kiss my forehead. The wax seal on top of this rejection, only I’m not sure if the hatred is stronger for him or for myself.

EIGHT

The set for Wretched is nothing but a nightmare of disorganization and pandemonium.

I can’t blame it all on Parker Heath, either. Sure, he’d been a real son of a bitch before he kissed the end of my gun, but his talents with the Hollywood machine were only matched by few. He knew exactly how to work a set and drag the most out of any production.

He’s dead.

And now there’s only me. I did it to myself, but two months to get this shit show wrapped and out in the world?

We’re going to have to work overtime.

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