Page 92 of Lose You to Find Me

Why is she telling me this now? “I’m not with Emma anymore. So none of this matters. It’s moot.”

Her body turns toward me. “But don’t you get it? Itshouldmatter. We’re stuck in a cycle that neither of us seems to know how to break. I have no hold on you, no right to be jealous or act like you being with someone like Emma isn’t okay. Not after what I did in Radcliff. You’re not mine because I let you go.”

Those words strike me right in the chest.

You’re not mine.

“Thanks for the reminder,” I murmur, shaking my head as those fucking words echo in my head. As if it needs to be reiterated, I feel the need to tell her, “I’m not Emma’s either, even if you think we’re somehow a perfect match on paper. Spoiler alert, Raine. There’s no such thing. Look at us and this supposed cycle you mentioned. You were with someone else, and I’m still not over you. What the fuck does that say about me?”

The noise coming from Raine is indescribable, but the expression on her face is humorous. “I didn’t mean to say that in a harsh way, I’m just trying to say that…”

When she stops, my brows inch higher up my forehead in confusion. “You’re trying to say what, exactly? That you’d be okay with me seeing someone someday, but not now? If not Emma, then some other girl? Are you trying to say you wouldn’t be jealous simply because you wouldn’t have a right to be?”

Her hands bunch into fists. “I wouldn’t have a right to say either way. I was with Cody. You were with Emma. What’s done is done.”

“Because I’m not yours, right?” I push, not believing that for a second. If we were truly done, wouldn’t I have detached myself from her?

Her eyes narrow into slits. “Why are you being like this?”

I pull off onto a side road that barely gets any traffic and put the truck into park before turning toward her. “Because I want to hear you say it.”

She throws her hands up, all but growling out a cool “Saywhat?”

I unbuckle and cup the back of her neck, pulling her toward me until our mouths are centimeters apart. Fingers digging slightly into her neck, I say, “I want you to tell me that I’m not yours andmeanit. Because you wouldn’t be getting jealous over someone else having me if you didn’t want me at all. You wouldn’t be feeding me little half-truths if there wasn’t a part of you that wanted to hold on. You talk a lot of talk, baby girl, but what are youreallysaying?”

A sharp breath escapes her, and I’m all too familiar with the sound. She’s turned on. Anger be damned, she wants me. Wants this. Her eyes darken with a whole new intent as the top of her tongue slowly drags along her bottom lip.

“Would you let me touch you this way if I wasn’t at least partly yours?” I ask, voice dangerously low as I move even closer until the ends of our noses touch.

Her breathing picks up, getting choppy as she brushes her nose along the tip of mine as if she wants to make a move but doesn’t want to be the first one to cave.

But I wait. I’ve always been told I’m a patient man—another trait that I get from my father. In this moment, I can tell it frustrates the woman who wiggles her way closer, hands moving to my shoulders and gripping a handful of my jacket.

“You’re not being fair,” she whispers, lips ghosting over mine in a barely there touch.

My fingers tighten around the nape of her neck, moving upward to twist in the strands of her thick hair. “Whatisfair anyway? Nothing about what we’ve gone through is. You made sure of that.”

She pulls away just enough to look at me. I expect her to say something witty back, but instead her lips press against mine lightly. Once. Twice. Each swipe becomes a little more demanding as she presses into me, her grip on my jacket tightening and tugging me forward. When our fronts press together, I can’t help but slide my hands down her sides and under her jacket to settle on her back.

She stiffens, breaking contact and eyeing me with uncertainty. It takes a moment before her hands find mine, moving them from her back to her hips. “I’m a little sore,” she tells me.

I nod. “Okay.”

“But other places,” she says, lashes fluttering as she grabs one of my hands and places it on her thigh, “I’d be okay with.”

My heart picks up, along with something else a lot further south. “Is that so?”

All she does is swallow, moving my hand further upward until it rests on the apex of her thighs. Her mouth finds mine again, her lips opening mine until she teases my tongue and uses my hand to gain friction over the denim between her legs. I hear the hitch of breath when my fingers press against her, causing her hips to arch up against my touch.

Her eager fingers fumble as she works on undoing the button of her jeans, starting to wiggle out of the material enough for my hand to have access to the thin material of her panties.

She says one word: “Please.”

That’s all it takes before I spiral.

Like she said, it’s an endless cycle.

No amount of anger can withstand that one word she whispers.

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