Page 16 of Puck & Make Up

In answer to that silent glare, I just knock again.

More quiet, and for a long moment, nothing happens.

But then I hear footsteps approach the door, and my heart beats faster, my pulse picks up its pace through my veins, and my lungs work in overtime as every nerve in my body becomes completely focused on the woman walking my way.

There’s a rattle as the lock is disengaged, another as the chain is pulled free, and then the door is whipped open.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she snaps.

My anger wants to match that anger. To fight temper with temper.

I push that down.

That’s not what I’m here for. Plus, I know my temper is fed by my frustration because this woman doesn’t see me, doesn’t like me, doesn’twantme, even after all this time.

But I’m done with that shit.

I win on the ice.

I’m going to win off it too.

“Hey, sugar lips,” I taunt, crossing my arms and leaning a shoulder back against the open door frame.

She scowls, and, fuck, she’s beautiful when she does that, same as she is when she smiles, when she glowers, when she laughs, when she torments me or says my name like it’s the worst curse on the planet.

Her scowl stays in place at my greeting, and she doesn’t react other than to tense when I shift a little closer. “Why are you here?” she grits out.

I lift a sardonic brow. “I thought you were gonna prove it to me.”

Her chin comes up. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

Grinning, I allow my asshole to peek out as I drag my gaze down her body and then back up, smile widening as her cheeks flush. “Clearly.”

She’s in pajamas—adorable fucking pajamas. The bottoms are dotted with hedgehogs and puffy clouds, and she’s wearing a matching tank that shows off her lithe curves.

Curves I start to make a comment about.

But then I manage to tear my gaze from her tits in time to see something that turns my blood to ice.

Hurt.

Fuck.

“Dessie,” I begin, remorse tearing through me.

She thinks?—

Her lips press flat, the emotion gone in an instant, but just because it’s buried doesn’t mean it’s not in her, in the tension in her shoulders, the muscle ticking in her jaw, the frost in her normally hot brown eyes. “I’m tired,” she says frostily, the tone settling heavily on my shoulders and filling me with renewed guilt. “Since I’m going to go to bed withoutimpressinganyone.”

“Des—”

She turns away from me, reaching for the door, starting to swing it shut.

I catch it before it can latch, slip inside and close the wooden panel behind me before she can protest.

“Get out of my apartment,” she snaps as I lock it.

I fucked up.

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