Page 95 of Broken Pieces
I pour the coffees and grab hers from the counter, carrying it over without asking if she wants one.
Pure hospitality, right?
Or maybe it’s just that doing shit for her doesn’t feel as fucked as it should. Not that I’d ever tell her that. She’d never let me live it down.
Skylar sits up in the bed, legs folding beneath her, hair messy and falling into her face. She takes the mug from my hand without looking at me, fingers curling tight around the ceramic.
While her eyes are on the coffee, mine are somewhere they shouldn’t be.
Her strap slips off her shoulder, turning skin into temptation and cotton into a fucking weapon. Her nipples are hard against the fabric, twin triggers wired straight to my cock.
Fucking hell.
I shift my weight, jaw tight, trying to think about anything else.
Barbed wire.
Broken teeth.
But she’s sitting there in my bed, wrapped in sleep and heat and everything I shouldn’t want, and my cock’s already got its own fucking plans.
I turn back to my cup, eyes on the counter, trying not to look at her. I tell myself she’s just passing through, just some fucked-up detour I got dragged into. I repeat it like a fucking prayer. That she doesn’t matter. But my body’s calling bullshit on that, because every fucked-up part of me is tuned to her.
The mattress creaks behind me.
I grab my coffee from the counter, turn around, and lean back against it.
She pushes the blankets down and swings her legs over the side of the bed. Miles of fucking skin, smooth and bare.
My eyes drop without permission. Those long legs, that make a man forget how to breathe. The kind of legs you want aroundyour waist, around your throat that could squeeze the fucking life out of me.
My eyes track every step as she crosses the room, hips swaying just enough to make it hurt.
She moves to the wooden table I dragged in off the curb last week and sets her coffee cup down.
She grabs my hoodie from the back of the chair.
My fucking hoodie.
Pulls it on without asking, the hem brushing her thighs, sleeves hanging past her fingertips like she’s trying to hide inside it. She tugs the hood up and burrows in, disappears into it as if it belongs to her.
I don’t know why the fuck seeing her in it hits me the way it does.
But it does. Hard. Right in that place I pretend doesn’t exist.
She sits down and picks up her coffee, both palms wrapped around the cup like she needs the warmth. She brings it to her mouth, takes a slow sip, eyes on nothing.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. It’s thick, loaded, crawling with shit I can’t quite name.
If she were anyone else, I’d have already made a move. I would’ve had her up against the wall, her moans in my mouth and her legs around my waist.
But she isn’t just anyone.
She scares the shit out of me. Not because she’s mouthy and hard to read, but because she makes me feel, and I spent my whole life not feeling a fucking thing.
And I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.
“Thanks for the bed,” she says finally.
