Page 35 of Lie to Me

I fucking lose it.

I crowd her, walking her backwards until she bumps into the wall.

“You were mine, Sloane. You were my entire goddamn life. You’ve been mine every second of every fucking day since you approached me on that terrace outside of the gala. Our time away from each other hasn’t changed that fact. Nothing will ever change that fact, so get fucking used to it.”

She stares up at me. A mixture of lust and anger painted all over her face.

I can’t take this shit anymore. Without thinking, my mouth slams down on hers.

Home.

Sloane freezes for a second before kissing me back in equal measure. The kiss is completely contradictive. It’s angry yet soft. It’s starved yet slow.

It’s fucking everything.

It’s been ten years since I’ve felt her lips against mine, and I never want to go a day without it again.

Her tongue glides along mine, a moan reverberating from her throat as I push my hips into hers, letting her feel all of me.

“Fuck, baby,” I rasp, and instead of her taking things further, her body freezes. Filled with tension, she gently pushes me away from her and stares up at me with pain filled, wide eyes before a shutter falls on her expression. Indifference is the only thing to be seen now that she’s masked her emotions so effortlessly.

“That was a mistake,” she says, her voice hollow.

“Sloane—” I start, but she cuts me off.

“No. We’re done, Marco.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. All I want to do is drop to my knees and plead with her, but I know it will be no use. I can see the determination written all over her.

“We’ll never be done, little warrior,” I whisper before turning around and leaving the only woman I have ever and will ever love, standing alone in her apartment.

My throat burns as I tip back another glass of whiskey.

I can’t say when this ritual started, but it was probably around four months after Sloane left.

Let me be clear, I’m not an alcoholic.

I don’t drink because I need to, or because I want to. I don’t drink because I like the taste of whiskey.

Unbeknownst to my family and most of those around me, I actually fucking hate it.

See, they think I enjoy it. Actually, they probably think it’s my favorite, since they like to tease me about my expensive collection.

In truth, I started drinking it for one very specific reason.

Sloane’s safe word.

I’m not a damn poet, but for some reason, my fucked up brain decided to link my drinking of whiskey to Sloane whispering the word. Such a fucking random safe word, but for the last ten years, whenever I’ve felt the urge to find her, to reach out, to dosomething,I’ll drink whiskey and hear her whispering her safe word inside my mind. And that’s my subconscious’ way of telling me tostay the hell away.

What? I never said it was sane.

And that is why I’m slouched on the sofa, pouring my third glass of the night, feeling sorry for myself and forcing myself not to get up and go straight back to her apartment.

Usually, my little trick works.

Not tonight. Tonight, all I can think about is that kiss. That kiss that lasted no longer than a minute three hours ago.

Jesus Christ,that kiss.

There’s been many moments with Sloane that have been imprinted on my mind, playing on a loop for years, butfuck me.It’s like my memory didn’t do her justice. The feel of her body pressed against mine, the feel of her tongue tangled with mine.

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