Page 132 of Tied to You
I really wish I was more horrified by the danger surrounding him. I’m honestly not. Maybe that makes me a fool, or dumb, especially given my upbringing. Hand on my heart, when I look at the man once again looking at me, everything else fades to black. I don’t see it. It doesn’t faze me.
I see only him.
The way his eyes focus on my mouth, I think he’s going to come over and say something. This could be it, the moment we reconnect. I can see he wants to. He scratches the back of his head like he’s thinking about it, then out of nowhere, Dennis slaps him on his good shoulder, and his eyes drop apologetically. Before I can round the bar, they both walk upstairs.
Rocco’s words suddenly ring in my ears.
Fix it.
Two hours later, it’s midnight. Downstairs is now empty, the chairs all straightened and the empty glasses collected. Skitz walks downstairs shaking his head at me. I don’t care. It’s one night. He’ll get over it.
Slowly making my way upstairs, my hand slides up the metal banister, listening. They’re playing pool, a chorus of small cheers ringing out when one of them pots the ball. I smile.
When I make it to the top, Rocco hits the side of Dean’s leg, signalling the end of his night. They both stand, and Travis turns, seeing me. He watches everyone begin to leave, wondering what the hell is happening.
Rocco stops by my side, looking back at him.
When he looks back at me, he winks before heading out himself. He told me to fix it. I asked him for the space to do so.
A weird, awkward moment passes between me and Travis. We’re both standing staring at the other, listening to the final sounds of everyone leaving. The main door closes, and I hear Rocco lock it behind him.
“What did you do?” he asks warily but softly.
I lower my eyes, tucking my hands into the back of my jeans as the next song in the background begins. The thud of rock matches that of my heart. God, this is harder than I thought. Usually so in tune with one another, this is like the first time all over again. His manliness is pulsing through the air between us. I want to run to him. I want to throw myself at him and tell him everything I have to say.
But I have a different idea.
He’s leaning back against the pool table, one foot crossed over the other. His fresh glass of Vodka sits on the edge of the table, and he holds the pool cue in one hand, his arms crossed around it.
Slowly stepping closer, I hold out a tentative hand, waiting for him to pass me the cue.
He does, his eyes narrowed to crinkled slits.
“Tell you what,” I start, moving to his side and reaching for the white ball still on the table. He doesn’t move from his position as I bend at the waist, lining up the white ball, gently rolling it across the green surface with the tips of my fingers. “I pot the ball,” I look up at him, “and you talk to me.”
After a moment, he smirks with a slight jerk of his shoulders. He knows what I’m doing. “You got Rocco to clear everyone out to get me totalk?”
I shrug. “Only if I pot the ball.”
He holds my gaze, understanding. I wait for him to let go of the past two weeks, to let it sit still, if only for a moment, just so we can have this. He manages. I see the blackness disband, the smoky hue I’ve not seen for a while, returning with a magnetic pull.
Peace. Safety. I see it all reflecting back at me.
Looking at his feet, he then pushes away from the table and moves his glass further away toward the corner pocket. He turns his body to mine.
I line up the cue whilst he steps behind me—like the first time we were here.
“And if you miss?”
Potting the ball is irrelevant. This is the closest we’ve been in what feels like years, let alone days. His smell is intoxicating. His warmth, addictive. The low hum of his voice and the feel of him behind me is driving me wild. My heart drums loudly, my need for him to put his hands on my body, electrifying. I pull back my right arm, gently nudging him with the end of the cue before hitting the ball so softly, it rolls only a few inches before coming to a stop.
He lets out a low breath of air, and I stand straight, placing the cue on the table before turning to face him. He doesn’t step back, forcing me to arch my back, my hands behind me on the edge of the wood. His front is to my front. His hot breath is meeting mine. I swallow before talking. “Then you can fuck me on this table.”
Slowly placing his hands on my hips, tiny sparks explode like a million fireworks being let off at the same time. My lips part, now level with his. I want to kiss him so bad.
As if he knows, he licks them again before swiftly lifting me to sit on the table.
I bounce, my arms wrapping around his neck, my legs parting either side of him. My heavy breath turns heavier, in awe of the man before me.
