Page 96 of Starting Over

“Son of a bitch.”

“Maybe. Not sure anymore.”

Looking at him, confused, I searched his face for an answer that would make sense about why he was here.

Again.

His eyes were locked on mine, and I saw something familiar cross over his face. Something I had seen every time he looked my way. Something he was denying, not only himself, but me as well.

“You gonna let me in?”

I crossed my arms over my chest, just now realizing I was standing there in nothing but a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top. The cold air wasn’t what caused my nipples to pebble, though. No, it was the gorgeous man, with smokey eyes pinned on me, standing in my doorway.

Kingston O’Rourke.

President of the Silver Shadows Motorcycle Club.

“Why are you here?” I asked again.

He silently pleaded with me. I knew why he was here. The same reason he always came here. Though usually, he wasn’t drunk.

Stepping out of the way, I allowed him to enter my home. I could never deny him. I couldn’t stay away from him any more than he could stay away from me. I took whatever I could get from him. Did that make me pathetic? Sure, but what could I say? I was a glutton for punishment.

“I’ll make some coffee. Sit down.”

I walked to the kitchen and grabbed two cups out of the cabinet. The Keurig had to be the greatest invention ever. Living alone, I would never need a full pot of coffee. As I placed the pod into the machine, strong arms wrapped around my waist and tugged me back. My hands settled on the counter, and he buried his face into my neck as a shudder rippled through me. His large hand splayed over my belly, his fingertips toying with the waistband of my shorts.

My eyes closed, and I reveled in the feel of him. Just for a moment, I let myself believe before breaking the spell. Holding back the tears that threatened to spill, I asked him the same thing I always did.

“I thought you didn’t want me?”

“Wanting you was never the issue, princess. Having you is.”

“Don’t call me that. You can have me anytime you want to,” I reminded him.

We’d had this conversation numerous times, and it always ended the same way. Him angry that I didn’t understand the rules. Me hating myself for how weak I was when we were alone.

With others around, it was easy to pretend I hated him. It was easy to be angry with him. Here though, in moments like this, when he came to me in the middle of the night. When he wanted me for just a short time, where no one else knew. This was when I dreamed that things could be different.

Every time he knocked on my door, I prayed it would be different. I’d tell myself, this time he’ll kiss me, not just hold me. This time he’ll make love to me. This time he’ll stay with me.

Every time, it was always the same bullshit.

“You know I can’t.”

Turning in his arms, I glared up at him. “You can, but you won’t.”

“Grace,” he growled, and I felt it in the center of my soul. “I can’t.”

Dropping my eyes to his chest, I felt the moment he weakened.

“Baby, please don’t do this. Your dad—”

“Fuck him. He isn’t my dad!” I shouted, wrenching myself from his arms. I walked back into the living room, forgetting about the coffee. Keeping my back to him, I continued, “A dad is someone who’s there for you. Someone who raises you. I don’t have a dad. I have a sperm donor.”

“Is that was Declan is? He wasn’t there to raise Beck. Is he not her dad? Is he just a fucking sperm donor?”

I knew my words made him angry. This is what we did. Fate and tradition wouldn’t let us love each other, so instead, we tormented one another.

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