Page 69 of Reluctantly You

“You can go home now,” I say as I wipe my hands and adjust my hard cock in my pants. I didn’t come, but fuck if I won’t later. “You came here and got what you wanted.”

His eyes flash to mine and he shakes his head, trying to find the words. “Fuck you.”

“We’ve been over this,” I reply, leaning into him and brushing his lips with mine. He’s still naked from the waist down, and I can’t help but reach between his legs to cradle his softening cock against my palm. “Iwill be fuckingyou.”

He groans as I tug on him gently before I step back, running a hand through my messy hair.

“I’m not leaving,” he says as he pulls up his pants and buttons them.

“If you insist. You can stay but you’re not leaving my side. I have to wait for Rory to be ready to go home before I can take off.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he says as he pulls his ball cap back over his eyes.

I turn to look at him, my hand on the door. “Oh, Mitchell. You do.”

I will break him. Ruin him. Just like he’s doing with me.

When I stride out, I hope he follows.

He better fucking follow.

Chapter Twelve

Mitch

My skin is too tight for my body, a hum beneath my bones making me itch. He sucked my cock and slid his finger inside of me. I begged for it, asked him to do it.

What the hell am I doing?

And why do I want to do it again?

My feet carry me over to Gideon, who is leaning against the worn bar top, and I come to a stop behind him, suddenly unsure of my place. Does he want me next to him? In the same room as him? I don’t fucking know.

We’re so different, him and I. He effortlessly commands a room, while I pretend. It’s all a farce. I’m a fucking joke.

Before I can overthink it, his hand reaches back, and he pulls me next to him, my body now pressed against his side.

“What would you like to drink?” he asks me, his lips brushing my ear. I can feel him through my entire body, a spark of lust and need. A shot of desperation.

I don’t know. I don’t fucking know anything anymore.

When I don’t answer, he just sighs and shouts something to the bartender, who nods and moves away. I have no idea what he’s ordered, but I had no say in it.

I can’t speak right now.

My hands dangle by my sides, limp and useless, so I place them on the worn bar top, curling them against the woodgrain.

“Are you freaking out?” he asks, and I peer over at him, my gaze sliding down to his mouth, the way his lips look swollen from overuse, before shooting upward to the dark pools of his eyes.

I don’t answer, unsure what to say. Yes, of course I’m freaking out. Because it was him on his knees for me and yet, he commanded me the entire time, even though I could have easily taken charge.

Why did I let him do that?

Why have I always let him do that?

“If you are, we talk about it, like adults,” he says. “You don’t run away. You don’t hide. You talk about it.”

My mind flashes to the business card on my fridge. The one he left for me. For the first time in my life, I wonder if I should give that psychologist a call and speak to someone about what’s going on in my life. How to make sense of it all. Before I end up broken and shattered beyond repair.

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