She nodded. Put the pill on her tongue and swallowed it dry.
She always had something to say, yet she remained silent for the rest of the ride. The tension had always been there between us—sexual, loathing, and otherwise—though now we’d slept together, it seemed I was out of her system and mind.
My chest tightened in frustration.
I reached her apartment and looked over to see she’d fallen asleep. Her head was resting on the window, her breaths slow and even. She’d always been able to sleep at the drop of a hat, and deeply, too. I knew I wouldn’t get any shut-eye for at least a week, not with the feeling of her hands on me still searing like burns.
I let out a breath.
Swept my gaze over her face. Long eyelashes, smooth cheekbones, pouty mouth—the top lip that was slightly bigger than the bottom—the tiny scar on her chin. She was so goddamn beautiful I couldn’t even stand to look at her some days. Because I didn’t know what to do with her—to make her scream my name or to punish her for making me feel this way.
I needed to back off completely. To leave her alone and let her live her life.
Let her have her Vincent Monroe.
Because if I touched her again, the deeper this obsession would spread, and I knew where it would end. I’d find
some way to keep her. As strong as she liked to appear, she was delicate, flimsy, breakable, and too full of curiosity for her own good. She’d want out, and I’d never let her go.
Yet, the more I told myself I couldn’t have her, the more I wanted her.
And I wanted her so badly a cold sweat broke out beneath my skin, a tremble starting in my hands.
“Gianna.”
She slowly stirred, rolling her head to look at me with hypnotic, dark eyes. They grew half-lidded as sleep pulled her back under. Jesus. Today was one of the days it hurt to look at her. A protective urge welled in my chest. Ironic, because it was me she should be fucking running from.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel. “If you expected to be carried inside, you should have fucked someone a little more gentlemanly.”
Her eyes opened and narrowed on me. She started to shrug off my jacket.
“Keep it.”
There was no way I was letting her walk up to her apartment without it.
“And you say you aren’t a gentleman.” She let out a sarcastic breath as she stepped out of the car. “Though, just a tip for the next unlucky woman you screw, I would have preferred a box of chocolates over your shitty Plan B pill.” She slammed the door behind her.
HAVING SEX WITH YOUR MORTAL enemy was exhausting. Weight pulled on my muscles as I walked down the hall toward my apartment. I unlocked the door and kicked off my heels, though just as I reached for the light switch, a cold awareness touched my skin, and I froze.
“Well, well, well . . . you show up at the party in one man’s jacket and come home in another’s?”
My gaze drifted to Richard II, proud manager of The Playhouse, which featured the sleaziest strippers in New York. It was the only reliable place to get a fifty-dollar blowie in town.
He was one stepson I would never have to worry about falling into bed with, and it wasn’t because he was twenty years older than me. He was merely off-putting in every way.
“Yes, well, us women can’t make ourselves too available, now, can we?”
The curtains were open, filling the room with natural light, yet he’d managed to find the darkest corner, where he leaned against the wall. I imagined he’d skittered there like a roach. The bugs were odious little bottom-feeders, but always easy to squish.
“Did you suck Allister’s cock?”
I sighed. “And here comes the vulgarity, right on cue. Can’t you mix it up for once, Dick?”
I headed toward the kitchen, tensing as I felt him walk up behind me. He grabbed my arm and spun me around.
He was always finely dressed—today, in a pinstripe dress shirt and black pants—but the smell of cheap cologne, cigarette smoke, and stripper sweat clung to him, just like the greasy hair gel barely holding his combover in place.
His fingers dug into my skin. “I followed you out of the club earlier. How long have you been fucking him?”