Page 66 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

I give him a disbelieving look.

“Yeah, sure you don’t. Maybe you have amnesia too? The willowy mixed chick who’s always hanging off you isn’t your girlfriend? Or is she just a fuck buddy?” Sarcasm laces my words, but I stop and roll my lips inward when I realize I just practically admitted to paying attention to him and who he’s with.

Storm’s face turns even more severe when he opens his mouth to speak, but I hold a hand out. He pauses.

“It’s none of my business.”

The words are barely out of my mouth when he grabs my wrist again…and places it over his heart.

It beats thickly in his chest, slow and measured.

“It’s one hundred percent your business.” His words are clear and hard, and the only thing I can do after several agonizing seconds is nod.

“I don’t have a girlfriend, Shae, and I don’t have any fuck buddies waiting around for me,” he vows, holding my palm to his body and staring deep into my eyes. “There’s no one else.”

There’s no one else.

My fingers flex into his shirt, and I feel the damnedest urge to pull him to me, to search his mouth and his body, even though we’re here in this sterile hospital room.

“What do you need to know, Shae?” His words are delicate, as if he doesn’t want to break whatever is happening here between us.

“What do you need to know about me,” he says, his expression severe.

I gape at him and try to pull my hand back. He resists, weaving his fingers through mine.

“Who is she? The girl you’re always with. She was at the club last night,” I ask, and I wish I hadn’t. I look down at my lap, but when he rubs his thumb on the side of my hand, I allow myself to look at him.

“That’s Bambi. She’s just a family friend.”

I hum in response. “Does she know she’s ‘just a family friend’?”

He chuckles. “Yes, that’s been very clear for quite a while now.”

I hum again but choke when he rubs his knuckles down the side of my face.

“I get to ask a question now,” he says, and I prepare myself. “Why’d you run away from me?”

I don’t have to ask him to clarify. I know he’s asking about The Incident. I tug my hand again, but he continues to hold tight, this time placing our clasped palms in my lap.

To buy some time, I ask, “Which time?”

His smile slides into a smirk, and his green eyes turn stormy, sucking me in.

“The time when I had you pressed against the side of an elevator, and you were attacking me with your mouth.”

My jaw drops, and my brows slam down. “Me? Attacking you?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Yes, you. Remember now?”

I pull my hand away and he lets me this time, but keeps his hand on my thigh, as if he can’t resist touching me. I fold my arms, nestling them beneath my breasts.

When his eyes drop to my ample chest, I realize two things: One, I’m for sure not wearing a bra—not that I went out with one on—and two, my nipples are hard points, and not from the cold.

“I wouldn’t have fucked you, Shae,” he says, and I think I’m actually, literally choking.

I make a strange sound in my throat, from mortification, maybe? He sees The Incident as me attacking him and now he’s saying he doesn’t want to fuck me?

“Who said anything about sex?” I mumble.

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