Page 77 of Volatile Obsessions

Whatever this was…

The remainder of my shower continued on in the same torturous fashion. By the time I stepped out and reached for my towel, the space between my thighs was throbbing.

Aching.

Begging for relief.

I considered it for all of two-point-five seconds, eyeing my nightstand where B.O.B laid to rest, but all too quickly I realized indulging in this manic, lust-driven episode would only reiterate the fact Roman had managed to settle himself deep under my skin.

Nope.

No way.

Not happening.

There’s no way I could touch myself with his blasted face entrained in my mind and not be a ruined mess after the fact.

Nope.

Hell the fuck no.

It was bad enough as it is.

Cursing him to hell and back, I finished drying myself off and padded into my closet with the damp towel now wrapped around my body. Every single article of clothing was whipped from one side of the rack to the other as I searched for something to wear, the angry scrape of metal on metal a tell-tale sign of my frustration.

I couldn’t decide whether I was more angry with him or myself.

How daft could I be to let him put his lips on me?

I should’ve run when he got too close. Hell, I should’ve run the second I deduced what his intentions were.

Could’ve spared myself from all this nonsense. But no, of course not, because I was an idiot.

A masochist, too, evidently.

As the last blouse joined the rest of my wardrobe, I groaned aloud in defeat and stomped to my bed, falling onto my back in a disheveled heap.

What the hell is wrong with me?

No, seriously, what the hell was wrong with me? Why was I letting a man, a man whom I loathed no less, have this inexplicable effect over me?

Because you don’t really hate him…

Right as the ridiculous thought crossed my mind, my phone began blaring on the nightstand. I shot up with a gasp and snatched it with a quick hand, thankful for the perfectly timed distraction like never before.

“Hey Rams,” I answered, keeping my voice as even and unsuspecting as possible.

The last thing I needed was for her to pick up on my crazy and start another round of twenty-one questions.

“What are your plans for the hurricane?”

The blurted query caught me off guard, contorting my face in confusion. “What do you mean what are my plans?”

“Like, where are you staying?” she clarified.

“Um, in my flat?” I answered, though it sounded more like a question.

Ramsey gasped just slightly, a loud clatter arising in the background behind her.

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