Page 22 of Boy of Ruin
I know I should tell him to fuck off.
Move.
Cause a scene.
But his tongue runs along my throat, up toward my jaw, and I can’t breathe, let alone fucking move.
“I’m trying to wait for you,” he whispers against my ear, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as he slips his thumb into my mouth. It takes effort not to suck on him, but I don’t do it. “But you keep fucking tempting me. And if you keep talking to me like that, I won’t be able to stop myself, baby.”
He presses an open-mouthed kiss to that sensitive spot just under my ear, then releases me, pulling back and sliding his hands into his pockets.
I dip my chin as I twist around to face him, try not to feel where his full lips lingered. “Stop yourself from what?” I slam my water bottle on the table where I leave it before I slide out of the booth on the opposite end, standing. He does the same, the dancer nowhere to be seen as we confront each other.
He’s over six feet tall and I’m not even five fucking four, but I’d rather face him on my feet than on my ass. “Force me? Don’t you think you’ve done enough of that?”
Hurt flashes in his eyes, and it stuns me. I expected him to snap back. Maybe even slap me. Fighting is what we do best.
But hurt? Pain?
All the fight seems to leave me, and my shoulders sag as I bow my head, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to see if someone can give us a ride back—”
He steps closer, brings a hand to my face again, but his touch is light. Soft. “Please don’t,” he whispers, his other hand coming up too as he cups my cheeks, brushing his thumbs over my lips. “I’m sorry, Sid, I just…” I watch his throat bob as he swallows, averts his gorgeous eyes for half a second before he’s looking at me again. “It’s hard,” he admits. “It’s hard being so close to you…but…”
But not being able to have me.
He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. I know what that’s like. It’s how I felt throughout my entire marriage to Lucifer, as short as it’s been. He was unreachable.
He became someone I couldn’t talk to.
Couldn’t even breathe around.
It’s not quite the same, what’s happening between Jeremiah and I, but I know what it’s like to feel alone even when you’re touching someone else. It’s like holding a ghost.
My heart hurts for him.
I bring a hand to his chest and his face softens with that touch.
“I know,” I whisper, stepping closer, forgetting the noise. The people here. The music. For a moment, it’s just me and him. His hands slide down to the sides of my throat, just holding me gently. “Thank you for…trying.”
With those words, I drop my hand from his chest and after a moment, his eyes searching mine, he lets me go too.
He looks down. “I’ll take you back.”
I open my mouth to object, wanting to be alone, away from him, but he adds, “I’m closing this place down. It’s nearly three,” before I can say anything else.
The drive home in his Mercedes is silent, Ria and Nicolas following behind us. Jeremiah glances my way a few times, but I drift off into an uneasy sleep until we arrive home and he carries me up the stairs and starts to pull my shirt over my head as he sets me on the bed, his fingers brushing my sides.
I lean away from him and his jaw clenches, his grip tight for a second, but then he lets go, stepping back.
“I’ve got it,” I tell him quietly.
He stares at me a long, long moment, and for a second, I worry he won’t leave.
But then he nods, walks out, shutting my door softly behind him.
After I grab the phone he bought me from my nightstand, I roll over in bed, exhausted. Only the soft glow of the nightlight on.
I send Ria a text, tell her I’m too tired for the hot tub. A second later, before I slide my phone under the pillow next to me, she responds.
