Page 69 of Unorthodox
I raise my arms to swing again, but something stops me, pulling against the base of the lamp, prying it from my hands.
I spin around, my breath catching in my throat as I stare up at Max.
“Give that back.” I step toward him, not even thinking, just reacting. “Give that backnow.”I reach for the black, slender base, but Max steps out of reach, holds it behind his back.
“Stop,” he says, impatience lined in that word, like I’m a child throwing a tantrum. He’s dressed in black joggers, a plain white T-shirt, stretched across his chest.
The sight is jarring, seeing him out of his usual button down and tailored pants. I wonder if he’s gonefucking runningagain.
I shake my head, pissed at myself for giving a shit what he’s wearing.
“Give that back, Max,” I tell him, stepping toward him again, over the glass.
He takes another step back and we’re out of the bathroom, the carnage behind me.
“Get on the bed,” he says, his jaw tight as he jerks his head toward the unmade bed. I notice he has circles under his eyes, deep purple that bring out the blue of his irises.
Maybe that should be a warning.
As it is, I don’t care much for warnings. And I don’t care much for Max.
I step into his space, anger welling up tight in my chest. “Fuck you.” I lunge for him, grabbing his arm, trying to pull it forward, to get the lamp back.
But I should’ve known that wouldn’t work out how I wanted it to.
He drops the base behind him where it clatters to the floor, and then his hands come to my throat as he shoves me against the wall, beside the bathroom.
His fingers dig into my skin and mine come to his forearms, scratching at him. He leans his weight against me, pressing me further into the wall, making it impossible to draw breath.
“Stop fighting me, Addison.”
I dig my nails deeper into his skin.
His eyes narrow. “Addison.” But his voice doesn’t have its usual bite. Instead, it’s almost…pleading. “Stop.”
I let go of him.
I don’t know why, but at his plea, I do.
He steps back, dropping his hands from my throat, looking at the floor for a second.
Then he’s back on me.
He presses his body back into mine as he kisses me. His lips are bruising. He bites me, pulling out my lower lip, running his hands through my hair.
“Max,” I gasp as his mouth comes to my jaw, his teeth digging into my skin. “What are you—”
He places his finger on my lips, pulling down my sore bottom one. “Shh,” he says against my neck, “don’t talk, love.”
Then his hands are on my shorts, and before my brain can really register what the fuck is happening, he’s pulled them down, where they fall into a puddle at my feet. He threads his fingers into my hair anddrags meto the bed like I’m a fucking dog and my hair is my leash.
I stumble to keep up, my scalp burning.
He tries to shove me against the bed, but I spin around to face him, anger burning through me again.
“Stop, Max.”
He yanks my hair tighter in his fist, pulling me toward him by the strands. My eyes prick with tears, and he’s in my face, his brow against mine. “You don’t get to decide what happens in this house, do you understand?” His eyes are blank, almost bleary. I wonder when he last slept. I wonder where he was the past five fucking days.
