Page 83 of The Games We Play
Spark tried to show me everything that was important to him. He was filled with the kind of honest pride my kids have when they bring their favorite things in for show-and-tell. He shared his life with me, even though we have disaster written all over us.
Even though I’m deceiving him.
And I know that’s why I’m trying to keep him at a distance, instead of letting myself fall into what this could become.
I want to save myself the heartache. Because there is no way in hell I can get everything I want. There is no way I can sacrifice my younger brother for Spark. Not when Spark has everything he needs while Michael could lose his major source of aid.
But, is it selfish if I’m okay with Michael losing his aid so I can keep Spark? Michael would have me, and I’d work my ass off, take on tutoring, and whatever I had to so I could make ends meet. But it wouldn’t be anywhere close to what Cillian provides. Is that fair to Michael?
And Cillian caused my accident. Who’s to say he wouldn’t do worse if I don’t do as he says?
There’s no way this doesn’t end with heartache anyway.
I tear my face away from his shoulder and cup Spark’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to pretend our relationship doesn’t matter, but it does.”
He looks at me, the expression in his eyes one of absolute ruin. My heart yearns to take the look away.
Spark closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
“I’m not made for this life. I’ve seen it. Felt it. I’m not a brave person, Spark. I’d like to think I have a spine, but when it really boils down to it, if those girls out there threatened me, I wouldn’t have it in me to fight them. I’d rather just not be here at all.”
When his eyes open, they’re steely with resolve. “Then let me fight them for you. I’d set fire to the whole fucking world for you, Iris, and protect you from the flames.”
“I believe you’d try,” I say as I wiggle out of his arms. He lowers me to the floor, and I realize he’s still dressed in his jeans and boots. I’m sore in places I don’t think I’ve ever felt sore in before.
Leaning my head back into the spray, I let the water rinse the tears from my face. Spark leans around me and grabs a bottle from the shelf. Then he pours some shampoo into his hand and turns me around so he can wash my hair.
The gentleness with which he’s handling me is making me weepy again. I can’t explain it.
This man is everything I want, wrapped up in a package I’ve always despised. I’m struggling to reconcile the two. But for the first time, the man is winning over the biker. It’s impossible to resist. Especially when we just shared the kind of sex we did.
“You didn’t treat me like I was fragile,” I say.
“What?” Spark says, his voice close to my ear.
“You didn’t treat me like I was fragile.”
Spark encourages me back under the water, which rinses the suds away. They slide down the drain like my good intentions.
His hands lift the ends of my hair to make sure they’re all rinsed before he applies too much conditioner, but I don’t stop him.
When he’s done, he twists my hair and piles it on top of my head.
“What I just did was wrong. Close your eyes,” he says.
Gently he washes my face with his hands. The soap smells like him. His thumbs tenderly sweep beneath my eyes, over my lashes. Then he does the same to my lips, removing the lipstick I applied as a mask to hide my insecurities.
“Hold your breath.”
I do as he says, and then he nudges my face beneath the spray.
When I reemerge, I feel more like myself. Like his actions are putting my soul back in my body. I blink to make sure the soap is gone.
“I could have saidrain, but I chose not to.” I reach for his body wash, but he holds my wrist.
“Let me.” He pours some of the soap into his palms and begins to wash me reverently. My shoulders, my tender, bruised breasts, even beneath my armpits. I try not to wince as his hand moves between my legs, but the soap stings.
I suck in a breath.
