Page 17 of Tangled Desires

“We’ll see,” he says, mischief dancing in his eyes. I move to slide into the passenger seat, but the instant I shift, Ifreeze. Something warm and unmistakable drips out of me, and realisation slams into my chest. My stomach twists into knots.

Fuck.So stupid.

The high from the best orgasm of my life? Completely obliterated. My mind races, taunting me with one glaring truth.We didn’t use a condom.

“Immy?” Harrison’s voice cuts through my spiral, his brows pulling together as he studies my face. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head quickly. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

His frown deepens, and he reaches out, his hand brushing my arm. “Did I hurt you?”

“No!” I snap, yanking my arm back and hating the way his concern only stirs more chaos in my chest. “I’m fine. Really. I should just... get going.”

“Imogen—” But I’m already out of the car, slamming the door behind me before he can finish. My shoes echo against the footpath as I march to my front door, heart hammering in my chest.

Jesus Christ, what the hell just happened?

I pause at the door, gripping the handle as I try to steady my breathing. I’ll take the pill. I’ll be fine. This won’t ever happen again. I close my eyes at the memory of his hands on me, his breath against my neck, the way his stupid grin made me feel like I was floating.

Get a grip, woman.

But even as I scold myself, I can’t bring myself to regret it. Not really. I press my forehead against the door, letting out a shaky exhale. It wasn’t smart. It wasn’t planned. It definitely wasn’t the kind of thing I should be doing with him. But damn it, for one fleeting moment, it’s hard to pretend this wasn’t exactly what I needed.

And that? That might be the stupidest part of all.

6

Human - Rag ‘n’ Bone Man

The shop’s a madhouse today.

We’ve got two cars in for serious repairs after a two-car pile-up, so it’s all hands on deck. Not that I’m complaining—keeps me busy, stops me from stewing on shit.

Or, more accurately, onher.

Imogen. The blonde firecracker who’s got her claws so deep in my brain, I’m starting to wonder if she’s put some kind of voodoo spell on me. A week’s gone by, and I’m still walking around half-hard just thinking about her. The way she took control, riding me like she had something to prove. That filthy,sarcastic mouth of hers—Jesus, I’ve never heard anything so sexy in my life.

And that moment? When she came undone, completely letting go, soaking me and leaving me absolutely wrecked? That wasn’t just sex—it was something else entirely. Something I can’t stop replaying. Let’s just say it rewired my brain permanently.

And what do I get for my troubles? Radio silence. Not a peep. Sure, she wanted just one night, nothing more, but here I am, like a dickhead, catching feelings over a woman who literally told me to piss off afterward.

Well played, Immy. Well fucking played.

I laid awake all night after that, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything in my head. Not that I get much sleep at night anyway, but this was different. It wasn’t just her leaving so suddenly—it was the look on her face, the way her walls shot up like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I couldn’t stop thinking about whether I’d done the wrong thing, pushed her too far, or made her feel something she didn’t want to. It’s a special kind of torture, wondering if I fucked it all up with her before I even had the chance to figure out what this thing between us really is.

She’s ruined me. Completely. How the hell am I supposed to move on from that? From her?

It’s maddening. Infuriating. She’s my match, and I think I’ve known it from the second she started tearing me down with that sharp tongue of hers.

The real question is, how the hell am I supposed to let her go when every part of me is screaming not to?

Joe’s shouting something across the shop, but I’m too busy wallowing in my self-inflicted misery. Figures the one time I actually listen to a woman and agree to her terms, it turns out I’m shittier at casual than I am at maths. And let me tell you, Isuckat maths.

It’s bad enough Joe’s still on my case about that pub brawl from a few weeks back. Cranky bastard’s got a knack for holding grudges.

Can’t say I blame him, though. Head on straight, all serious kinda bloke. I look up to him. Ever since he came into the picture, when Michael and I were teenagers and on the loose, he wasted no time trying to shape us up. He’s been like a second dad since Mum met him.

I’m grateful for that, because, well, Mum does fuck all. Which is no real shocker. Sure, she’s sober now, no more drugs, no longer drinking, but years of enduring what I did, watching her do nothing but fall into the hands of that pathetic excuse of a man that I once calledFather, is enough to leave a stale taste in my mouth.

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