Page 102 of Bittersweet

It’s cute.

Endearing, even.

“Are you ever not mad at me?” I roll my eyes.

“I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t.”

“That’s a lie, but I like you mad regardless. One day I’ll fuck you angry.” A shiver rolls through me.

Ben fucking me angry.

Jesus.

“Yeah, my sweet girl likes the idea of that.” His hand reaches out, the knuckle of his pointer finger tipping my chin up to him in a move that’s so smooth, it causes butterflies in my belly to go crazy. And because I’m me, I can’t let Ben think I do, in fact, like the idea of him fucking me angry, because that would mean he won some kind of war that we’re in the middle of.

Can’t let that happen.

So instead, I roll my eyes and slam the door in his face, his laughter trailing down the hall as he retreats.

I find a shirt and put it on, carefully folding up my own Libby’s tank and stuffing it in a corner.

I contemplate leaving my bra on, but I just ugly cried on the man’s chest. I don’t think lift and separation are important right now.

Now the final decision: before I head to wash my face and brush my teeth, do I leave my shorts on? They’re soft, but not necessarily comfy enough to sleep in. The shirt hits right about where the nightie did, grazing the underside of my ass, but with thick thighs and full hips, that bit of coverage doesn’t do much.

To show ass cheek or not to show ass cheek. I guess that is the question, right?

Staring in his mirror, eyes still puffy, long, loose, unflattering Coleman Ink shirt covering me nearly to my elbows and then past my hips, I make my decision.

Fuck it.

I walk out, heading for his bathroom and hoping he doesn’t see me. Opening the cabinet, I’m strangely pleased to only see one toothbrush. I’m not sure why—he doesn’t seem the type to mess around, too busy being broody and rude, but still. It’s a comfort. I look in the cabinets to see if there is a backup (and, okay, I’ll be honest—I scan for hair ties and purple shampoo because girl code, ya know?) and find nothing.

Again, I decide, fuck it.

I run the water, put his toothbrush under, and then paste it before putting it in my mouth, scrubbing at my teeth.

“Like the view,” I hear behind me. Ben’s voice. When I turn, he’s staring at me with that damned cocky smile before his brows furrow in slight confusion. “Is that my toothbrush?” I nod but continue to brush, foam creeping to the edges of my lips. “Why are you using my toothbrush?” I turn, spit into the sink, and turn back to him.

“Dental hygiene is very important, Ben. Your smile is the first thing people see of you.” An eyebrow goes up. “Well, maybe not you because all you do is glare at people. But for the rest of us . . .” I pop the toothbrush back into my mouth, scrubbing, but this time with a triumphant smile.

“I could have gone next door, gotten your toothbrush.” Now I glare while brushing my teeth. I finish, turn, spit, rinse, and put the toothbrush back where I found it before turning back to him, crossing my arms on my chest.

“You’re telling me you would have gone next door and gotten my pajamas?” He smiles. I think that smile could get him very far with me if he just did it more.

He has agoodsmile.

“But then I wouldn’t see you in my tee,” he says before a thick tattooed arm reaches out, grabbing me around my waist and tugging me into him until my chest hits his. “And I really like how that looks.” His voice is low and husky, and it reverberates in places it has no right to. The other arm moves, dipping until the hand lands on my nearly bare ass. I can’t do thongs, but cheeky panties? They’re my jam.

A groan leaves his chest, vibrating against my nipples through layers of bones and sinew and skin.

“Trying to drive me crazy, aren’t you?”

“In any way I can,” I say, my own voice whisper soft as I look up at him.

“You’re succeeding,” he says, and then his lips are on mine again, soft this time.

But soft or hard, sweet or angry, that same feeling clicks into place.

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