Page 19 of The Loves We Lost
“I don’t believe I owe you an answer.”
“Like fuck you don’t. That’s half of me you’re out there hustling today. Why?”
“I didn’t mean to.” She fiddles with the letterAon a chain, then drops onto the bed, exhausted. I want to rip the thing from around her neck, because the idea she’s carrying something personal about another man on her body while I’m standing here, hating the fact she isn’t mine, ratchets up my anger.
“Hardly a fucking answer, Vi. You wrote our story, only you gave two fucking imaginary people the ending you couldn’t give us. What the fuck kind of bullshit is that?” I fold my arms as I lean back against the desk.
“I didn’t think you’d ever see it.” Her eyes flash to mine. “How did you find out about it?”
“Again, still not an answer.”
“I started writing this series because motorcycle club romance is popular. It plays to my strengths to write books with complex suspense plots. I can keep all the threads straight. And I’m good at creating darker themes. And then this series took off. But this one character, god, he was so ... every time I thought of him, I thought of you. And us. It seemed harmless. It was cathartic.”
“Cathartic?”
“You know. To process us. To visualize how it could have been.”
I huff at that. “How it could have been? You write them fucking happy, Vi. I’ve heard the termHEAenough to know what it means.”
“Why areyouhere, Miles? The last thing you said to me was that I was going to die alone.” She kicks off her heels and jumps to her feet. I used to tease her that when she was angry, she was like one of those tiny dogs that yap at the mailman. “It’s clear from your tone that you’re pissed off about something. If it’s about the book, too bad. If it’s about me giving them a happily ever after, too bad. Nothing has changed. I see you are still who you are.” She tips her chin in the direction of my cut with a wrinkle across the bridge of her nose that threatens to turn into a sneer.
“Who I am?” I take a step closer to her. “You should be fucking afraid of who I am. I’m the enforcer at the mother charter of one of the biggest and still fastest-growing motorcycle clubs in North America. Outside this room, people fear this cut. They fearme.”
“Well, inside this room, they don’t, you pompous asshole. I respected you more when you worked an honest day at the garage and grabbed us pizza on Fridays on the way home.”
“And I respected you more when you weren’t a coward.”
Her mouth opens wide. “A coward? You have no idea what my life has been like.”
“And whose fucking fault is that?”
Hazel eyes narrow at me, but I don’t miss the flash of fire. My cock responds.
“I hate you.”
“Well, I hate you more. You owe me, Vi.”
She steps right into my space, and I hate it almost as much as my cock enjoys that she’s close by. “What exactly do you think I owe you?”
“Half your royalties, or closure.” I don’t even know why I said it.
“What the hell does that mean?”
I grab either side of her head. “It means cash or ... this.” And my lips are on hers before I can think.
A tsunami of feelings follows, but none of them beats the fact I have my hands and my mouth on Viola Mills again. My body remembers everything. How best to pull her to me, how her cheeks always feel soft when I kiss them. She even smells the goddamn same.
No, scratch that. She smells better. She feels better. And I swear to god she kisses better.
I hate to think it’s because of the years of experience she’s had since me.
“We can’t do this,” she says, muffled against my lips, even as her fingernails dig into my arms.
“Then you’re going to have to walk away from me,” I say as I bite and lick my way along her neck. “’Cause I ain’t stopping unless you do.”
I release my grip on her but continue to kiss her. Her hands slip into my hair, short nails scratching against my scalp, and shivers trickle down my spine. I untie the bow holding her dress together and unravel her like a Christmas present in July.
She doesn’t step away. “You moving, Vi?” I suck on her earlobe. “Or are we doing this?”
