Escaping Reality (The Secret Life of Amy Bensen #1)(42)

“Oh, good,” a slightly familiar male voice proclaims. “This is Scott from the cell phone store. You left your driver’s license here. We close in an hour if you want to swing by.”

Relief washes through me and nervous laughter, once again, bubbles from my lips.

“Thank you. I’ll come by tomorrow and get it.”

“I’ll hold it at the register and keep it safe. Goodnight.”

“Thank you again. Goodnight.” I end the call and Liam takes my phone and shoves it back into my purse before setting it on the ground and the look in his eyes says I’m in for another game of dodgeball I do not want to play.

“I left my ID in the store.” I lean forward and wrap my arms around Liam’s neck and mold my upper body to his. Warmth spreads from every place we are touching to every place we are not. “Where were we?”

His hand splays between my shoulder blades, a hot branding I welcome, but the warning that follows is ice dousing the fire. “You aren’t going to pretend what just happened didn’t happen. Just like you aren’t going to tell me you didn’t walk into the bathroom at the restaurant running from me and then exit running from someone, or something, else.

And I’m not buying it was Meg.”

“New places make me nervous.” I press my lips to his.

His hand tangles in my hair and gently pulls my head back, forcing my gaze to his, and his eyes are as hard as his voice as he orders, “Don’t give me that kind of answer. Raw and honest, Amy. That’s what we are or we are nothing at all.” He presses me against the wall, caging me with his arms, pinning me in a stare. “Tell me who is scaring you and I promise you, Amy, I will make them go away.”

If only it were that easy. If only he could be my Prince Charming, my hero. But the truth he wants is that I’m a reality show kind of gal. And in reality, heroes die, just like everyone else in my life. I grab his shirt and lean into him. “What happened to you f*cking me until we can’t walk anymore?

That’s what tonight is supposed to be. Not you making me one of your mathematical equations you have to crack. I don’t want to be cracked, Liam. I don’t want to answer questions. I want to be f*cked.” I barely recognize the woman who can say such a thing and that only twists me into a few more knots. I am sick of not knowing. “You promised. You said you were—”

I yelp in surprise as he picks me up and starts walking. “What are you doing?”

“No more questions, remember?”

Blood rushes to my ears, and I do not even try to see the room around me but I am aware it’s a fancy sitting area that is nothing more than a means to an end. The bedroom. Sex. We are going to have sex. That’s what I asked for. That’s what I dared to demand. Actually, I demanded I be f*cked. Until last night, I didn’t say that word. This man is changing me and I am not sure if that is good or bad. It feels good. He feels good, but maybe too good. I cannot even willingly lie to the man when lying is how I survive.

He is making me careless. He is making me…so much.

Too much. Not enough when I want more, and I have no business wanting anything at all.

We enter the bedroom and a light glows dimly, though I am not aware of how or when

Liam turned it on, and to my surprise, he bypasses the bed that sits in the center of the main wall of the room. Instead, he sets me on my feet in front of a massive bathroom I barely glimpse, before he shuts the door. And that intense edginess I’m coming to know as Liam has cranked up several notches. He is mad or…wounded? Over me? That can’t be. He is confident and experienced and I am…whatever I am, but I am less, if I have hurt this man who has already proven he is so much more than his Wiki page.

“Liam—”

“No more talking.” His hands come down on my waist, a possessive branding, and his voice is hard, a tight band I have the impression might break with his mood at any moment. He walks me backwards several steps until my heels hit the door and I lean against the hard surface.

His legs shackle mine, holding me as captive as the burn in his eyes.

“You want me to f*ck you, Amy, I’ll f*ck you.”

I think he is angry and suddenly, the word “f*ck” feels like a slap when I am the one who all but shouted it at him. “Yes. Yes, I do, but—”

His mouth comes down hard on mine, hot with demand, with anger. I do not want him to be angry and I lean into him, hoping it will fade, hoping to get lost in him, but it doesn’t work. I taste the bite of his mood, the roughness of his tongue, and I shove at his chest and tear my mouth from his. “Wait. Not like this.”

“You want to f*ck or you don’t. I am not a yo-yo any more than you are one of my mathematical equations.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Don’t challenge me to f*ck you and then run away.”

Run away. I am always running away and sick of that being my life.

“You’re just”—I make myself look at him—“you’re you, Liam, like you said I’m…me. And you, Liam Stone, are like a bull when you want something.

You charge.”

“What I want is you.”

Even though I know this, hearing it stirs a sweet spot in my belly and all I want to do is savor the sensation and the man who created it. “Then please. Just be with me. Just be with me, Liam.”