Page 37 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

He leans closer, his hot breath heavy against the crown of my head. “You’re still the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

My heart stalls, but I stay quiet.

“Do you have any idea how much it kills me to keep my hands to myself?” he demands. “To not reach up and tug on the little knot right above your tits right now? To not suck on them as I squeeze your ass and bury myself inside you? My mouth was fucking watering in there.” He lifts his chin toward the empty bathroom behind me. “So don’t you dare––for one second––think you aren’t the sexiest creature on the planet. We clear?”

My lower lip quivers, and I suck it into my mouth, ignoring the slight ache between my legs and the way I’m already dripping from his words alone.

“Are. We. Clear?” he growls, getting in my face, his dark eyes shadowed by his heavy brow.

“Y-yes.”

“Good girl. Go shower. Take your time. Lotion up and shit. Hell, paint your nails for all I care. Do something to make you feel like you again.”

Like a bucket of ice water has been poured over my head, I flinch back and glare up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I know you.”

“And?”

“And I know you haven’t felt like yourself since she was born.”

The words hit too close to home, and I scramble for an excuse to justify the truth. “I’m a mom now.”

“Doesn’t mean you should lose yourself or your identity from the pressure. If she gets fussy, I’ll come get you. Not because I can’t handle her, but because I know you’re stubborn enough to think you’re the only one capable of taking care of her.” He turns around and takes the stairs slowly. Controlled. But there’s a weight with every step shaking me to my core as they echo down the hall.

He’s right.

And I hate it. But I also can’t ignore the truth anymore. If I want to be a good mom for Penny, I need to start taking care of myself too.

But it feels like it’ll be a hell of a lot easier said than done.

Still, it’s worth a shot.

Isn’t it?

11

Maddie

Idon’t get back in the shower. But I do grab my blow dryer from my bedroom and spend a solid thirty minutes blowing out my hair and actually putting on makeup. Real. Freaking. Makeup. My jeans still don’t like me, but I found a flowy dress I feel decent wearing. By the time I’m finished, I almost feel like myself again.

Almost.

After pairing the dress with a jean jacket and brown boots, I head to the first floor with a bounce in my step I was positive would be lost forever.

Milo and Jake are lounging on the dark leather couch with controllers in hand, and Peanut is curled against Milo’s chest as he shoots a zombie in the head.

“Nice,” I quip.

Jake glances at me and laughs. “What is?”

“Milo’s showing my daughter how to kill zombies.”

“Gotta prepare them for the apocalypse, Mads,” Jake returns, not missing a beat as he jabs at the controller, taking out another zombie.

Milo’s chuckle is warm and throaty as his gaze flicks from the video game to me. His smile falls flat. But he continues staring, scanning me from head to toe. There isn’t any heat this time, though. No, his mask is still perfectly in place––unlike in the bathroom or the hallway when he told me what he’d like to do to me––hiding whatever might be going on his head right now and leaving me squeamish.

“There a problem?” I challenge.

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