A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)(29)

Pause until it all ended, and then resume life.

Drew pulls back. A light breeze passes between our separated bodies. My knees burn and I look down, seeing raw skin, red blood filling in like a kid with a red marker and a paint-by-numbers kit. I let go of his shirt and look up at him, a wave of self-consciousness hitting me. This is the part where I look into his eyes and see pity. The part where he’s just doing his job. Comfort the client. Make sure she’s not hurt. Do your job exactly right so you get paid.

That’s how this works, right?

Except, when I look at him, it’s like finding out there are eyes made of nothing but love.

“Everything I thought about coming home is wrong,” I say, staring back with eyes that feel like hollow craters. If only his eyes could fill mine. “I thought I’d come home and pick up my life. It might be a new life, but it would be a life. Away from the drugs and the mandatory group therapy and individual therapy and art therapy and—f*ck all that therapy!”

One corner of his mouth twitches as I say this, his head tipping to one side, his eyes more compassionate than I ever remember. I spent years hating him. Years.

And all those years, wishing he still loved me.

“And then here you are,” I continue, my voice cracking with emotion. I have imagined this moment thousands of times. This is my chance. I get to hit him. Punch him, Kick him in the balls and scream and scratch and claw and get my revenge.

But suddenly, I’m kissing him.

How in the hell did that happen?

His white cotton t-shirt is hot and damp, my hands clenching the fabric, palms riding up his arms, enjoying the feel of his wide, broad back, rippling with muscle under my touch. He tastes like coffee and sweetness, like a welcoming party and a roaring fire in winter. Like a past that we never got a chance to share, and a future I ache to have.

“Lindsay,” he whispers between kisses, then presses me hard against him, his tongue more demanding, parting my lips with an eagerness that betrays his cool, controlled exterior. His hands are in my hair, one cupping my cheek, and with our mouths we say so much.

Without uttering a single word.

I’m transported to a place where I’m wanted. Needed. Craved and treasured, even if it’s just for a few fleeting seconds in Drew’s arms. This is so familiar. This is so foreign. I feel both at the same time, suspended between two worlds.

And then I wrench myself away, reeling from the dissonance. What am I doing? Panting hard, my breath forced out of me like an exorcism, I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and stare at him like this is all a figment of my imagination.

“C’mere,” he says, pulling me dangerously closer. Dangerous because I can feel his breath on me. I want to feel his breath on me. The more I feel his heat, the closer his mouth is to mine. I want to kiss him again. I want it so, so much.

But I can’t.

“No,” I say, the longing in my voice so obvious I can’t even fool myself.

“No? Why not?”

“I can’t kiss you like that again, because I hate you.”





Chapter 22





“I don’t think you really hate me, Lindsay,” he says softly, his thumb grazing my lower lip, his eyes smoky and troubled. When he talks to me like that, I unravel inside.

I want to unravel like this, become a long line of ribbon I can wrap around him, tight, and never, ever let go.

Which means I can’t. I have to stop this, now, before I lose myself completely.

“You don’t know anything about me, Drew. Quit trying to make assumptions when you have no idea. No idea.” The burn of his mouth lingers on mine. I can taste him, that unique flavor that I just recall as Drew when I give myself permission to revel in memory. I keep watching his mouth, as if by looking at it I can learn something.

It just makes me want to kiss him again.

I can’t kiss him again.

If I do, I’ll lose myself in him. That kind of self-hatred would be the final, ultimate betrayal in my life.

When you betray yourself, there’s really only one resolution.

And that’s suicide.

Given that I’m not interested in offing myself, that means I don’t even have a choice right now.

I have to get away from him. Stop looking at those hot, full lips. Stop thinking about how his tongue tasted moments ago. Stop thinking about his hands on my back, one sinking into my hair. Stop thinking about how he pulled me closer, as if he really wanted me.

Fantasy.

It’s all a stupid fantasy. A damn determined one, though. I can’t seem to let it go.

Standing fast, I move away from his touch. It feels like a kind of death. Drew’s faster, though, and before I realize it, he’s holding my elbows, making me look at him.

The backs of my knees tingle when I look into those eyes. Real emotion fills them, overflowing into his expression. It’s like he really cares.

I’m inventing that, right? In group therapy sessions at the island I was told that one of the most dangerous moments back home is when you project emotions onto other people. Wishing someone felt a certain way didn’t make it true.

Oh, how I wish what I see in Drew’s face were real.

The ache rises in me, a steady sorrow that comes with a sigh.

“Lindsay,” he says, tilting his head just so. Heat radiates off him in waves, and not because we’ve been running. I hear footsteps coming fast. Drew’s glance darts toward the sound.