Page 140 of Bona Fide

Push. Him. Away.

“Today is the anniversary of the day you marched into my office,” he drones. “Wearing a pink romper and lipstick that made your lips more fuckable and—”

“Get to the point,” I snap, my fingers curling into fists.

“You stomped in like a brat and asked me to book some stupid-ass kid for a birthday party.”

“I stomped into your office a lot,” I retort.

And I kissed you that day.

“But there was something different about it. You pulled the lapels of my jacket.” He grabs the fabric of my dress near my rib cage, pulling me from the safety of the wall, and inches me closer. “And told me not to sell myself short.”

His chest sweeps against my breast as he tucks his chin down so he can still look at me. I softly punch the wall with my hands to keep my emotions at bay. To keep any good feelings out of this because he burned them a long time ago.

“On New Year’s I told you that for every anniversary of the first day we met, the first time I saw you, the first kiss we ever had…” The hand still resting on the wall comes around to grip my jaw from underneath my chin. “I’d need a kiss from you. And I’m back, baby.”

He leans forward, his mouth only a few inches away from mine. Taunting and alluring, all it would take is one tip of my toes and we’d be there again. Molded together so perfectly that it’s a fucking shame that nothing else worked out.

And I won’t try again.

I can’t.

I open my mouth to tell him that I don’t care what he said. That I’m not at his beck and call for whenever he wants to summon me.

That we were over before we began. I think that’s what eats at me the most. Your mind can dream up scenarios, mine does a lot because I’m always trying to imagine different ways to improve an event or something else I can bring to the table. It’s also half the shit that brought me practically to my knees when everything went down.

Demi.

Mama.

Chase.

“Wade,” I utter. “I’m not—”

“Available?” His tone isn’t menacing or filled with the revulsion that he had for me yesterday. This time it’s cool, collected, and fucking staged.

“Doesn’t—”

“Are you Jed Hardison’s now?” He cocks his head, allowing him the space to nustle his face into the crook of my neck. “Thought you’d rip him to pieces by now, Shelton.”

Almost there, don’t worry your pretty head about that.

“Or did you go back to that pretty boy, Grant?”

“I—” His lips clasp around the responsive part of my neck. The one that he knows makes my eyes roll back in my head and my body go lax in his hold.

That’s the problem with knowing someone too well. He knows how to press each and every single one of my buttons. The shiny red one to piss me off. The royal blue that makes me smile. The black one where I have threesomes with his mortal enemies and shamefully try to gouge it out of my brain.

But then there is the purple button, the color of my eyes and the depths to my soul. The single preset that he knows where to push, touch, and prod to get what he wants.

And I have a funny and sober-sided inkling that Wade Lockwood might want me on my knees to repent for the sins I’ve committed against him.

The very tip of his tongue trails a path up the nape of my neck, drawing every ounce of self-restraint and Wonder Woman powers that I possess to just dissipate into thin air. I never discovered a cure for Wade. No amount of dick, muscles, sweet words, and men with potential tore him from being something I still think about every day.

He’s literally on a billboard two blocks away from my apartment.

“Or is there someone else?” he presses gently, the hint of his fingertips grazing down my sides. “Someone that is almost as good as me.”

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