Page 82 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

“From a lifetime of pressure to claim me when we both know it’s the last thing you’d ever want.”

“Bullshit.” He drags me around the corner of the building in search of a bit more privacy. “You were lashing out at them for no damn reason.”

“No damn reason?” I laugh dryly. “You’re joking, right?”

“They’re allowed to ask questions about your life, Madelyn.”

“Not about you and me,” I argue, shaking my head back and forth. “Not about my past and why I’m not enough.”

He jerks back as if I’ve slapped him. “Who said you’re not enough?”

“You did!”

Like some sick, twisted dance, he takes a step toward me, but I retreat, keeping the distance between us even though it kills me.

“Mads...stop.”

Shaking my head, I shove my hair away from my face, practically choking on my feelings and insecurities, no matter how many times I’ve tried to swallow them back. Moisture clings to my lashes as I peek up at him but stay quiet, daring him to say I’m wrong. To admit he wants me when all he’s admitted is the opposite.

“Stop lashing out at me,” he pleads. “Stop lashing out at your parents. I get it. You’re frustrated, but you’re being unfair.”

Again, he steps closer. The toe of his shoe touches mine, and this time, I don’t step away. Ican’t. My back is against the wall, literally, and the rough brick claws through the light material of my blouse as I lean against it, refusing to look up at him.

He’s too close.

Towering over me like this.

Leaning down, he gets in my face until all I can see, smell, or hear is him. I still try to block him out even though I can feel him looking at me. Daring me to meet his gaze.

But I don’t.

Nostrils flaring, I zero in on the damn sleeves of his stupid shirt I asked him to wear, regret pooling in my stomach.

My breasts brush against his chest as I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, though I feel like I’m spiraling. Like I could break any second. Hell, maybe I already have.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs.

“I tried,” I choke out. “I tried to talk to you.”

“When?”

“In the car.” I sniff. “When you kissed me, then pushed me away.”

He closes his eyes and leans his head against my forehead, pained and exhausted. “Try again, Mads. Try one more time. Please?” he pleads.

My tongue darts out between my lips, and I pull away from his touch. Not enough to move out of his grasp, but enough to breathe. For a second. “Everything was good when we were sleeping together, but as soon as I wanted more, you left me high and dry.”

“Mads––”

“You wanted to talk this out, didn’t you?”

With a deep breath, he squeezes the back of his neck and nods.

“I feel like you’re hiding behind some bullshit excuse making you the victim. As if I’m the one who broke your heart, instead of the other way around.” I glare up at him. “You did this.Youdecided I wasn’t good enough.Youdecided I wasn’t worth the risk. It’s why I had to correct my parents in there. Because if I have to accept the fact you don’t want me, so do they.” I squeeze my hands into fists, my fingernails biting into my palms. “You’re not the only victim, Milo. But you are the coward who was too scared to go after––”

His mouth slams against mine, turning the moment into some sick déjà vu dance my body already has memorized from not so long ago. The feel of his hands on my hips pinning me against him makes my knees weak and turns me into a puddle of pent-up frustration and lust. The combination is torturous, yet I can’t get enough of it. I need him. I need him more than my next breath.

How can he not see it?

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