Addicted for Now (Addicted #2)(16)

She needs me as much as I need her. We just have to find our footing in this relationship. And that takes time.

She grows restless, so I roll on top of her, pinning her legs down with mine, trapping her small frame. She seems to settle, but her chest rises and falls heavily, fear swimming in her eyes.

“Who do you trust more, me or you?” I ask.

“You.” She doesn’t even hesitate.

“Then this is how we’re going to sleep.”

She frowns. “I’m not sure I can hold your weight.”

I smile. This is why I love her—why I relish in the fact that I’m going to wake up next to her, my arms wrapped around her delicate body. She’s f*cking adorable. “No, like this…”

I slide off Lily and easily readjust. I tug her closer, and my arm holds her small waist against me. We’re spooning, her back to my chest. Now, where is that f*cking hand? I find her right hand curled up underneath her breast, and I take it in mine. Then I intertwine my fingers with hers, securing them with determined force. No more masturbating, Lil.

I’m about to officially instate our new sleeping position, but her ass presses harder into my cock. She’s scooting back, either on purpose or subconsciously, I have no clue. It’s still kind of cute, but it doesn’t help.

I lean back and grab a small pillow, and then I wedge it between my dick and her ass. “Better?”

“Depends who you’re asking—Horny Lily or Good Lily?”

I love them both. I press my lips to her ear. “I love you.”

“…I don’t have much love for myself at the moment,” she mutters in a small voice. I can see her shrinking internally, her self-worth dropping lower and lower from the guilt.

“Hey, I’d be passed out already if I had to sleep in the same bed with a bottle of booze. You’re doing all right. And this is new for both of us, Lil. It’s going to be lots of trial and error. Now we know that we have to sleep like this. Okay?”

“Are we going to have sex in the morning?”

The question doesn’t annoy me. Still, I’m not used to telling her no. I’m usually the one teasing her until she’s hot and bothered. But I can’t do a goddamn thing. Because that would be enabling.

So I say, “We’ll see.”

She sinks back into me—and that damn pillow—as I watch her drift to sleep. When I know she’s safely in slumber’s hold, I allow myself the same luxury.





{ 6 }

LOREN HALE



My heart beats wildly, my muscles burn and my legs pump. I run. Around and around. There is no end.

If I stop soon, I’ll start screaming. The tendons in my calves strain with each foot on the cement track. And I focus on my breathing. In and out. Inhale, exhale. One, two, three…

I’ve always been good at running. Even when I screwed up every f*cking thing, I did a decent job at sprinting right away from the cops, from prep school guys wanting to smash my face in, from my father and my problems.

Running has kept me alive.

And if I learned anything from rehab, it’s ways to stay busy. But my warring thoughts only make me want to drink. Even bringing up my father, college, the text messages that threaten Lily—any f*cking thing, my chest collapses, and I know just the solution that’ll fix everything. Whiskey, bourbon—an amber glass will melt all the pain away.

Yesterday, I almost walked into a bar.

I lose my steady pace on the track, my breath staggering. One…two…

Each foot feels heavier than before. I want to be light as a freakin’ feather. I want to float right on out of here. But I keep thinking about it.

A smoky bar was directly across the busy intersection as I waited for Ryke to pick me up from therapy. Traffic, honking cabs and bike messengers never stopped me before. Why should they then? The Jack Daniel’s poster in the front window called out to me like a siren singing her deathly serenade on the edge of a dock.

And I nearly drowned in that sea of bourbon.

Stupid, little f*ck.

I exhale deeply, which only screws with my pace again. Ryke runs by my side, and his eyes flicker briefly to me. He purposefully slows his quick stride. Right now, he could sprint laps around me. But he chooses to be here. I should be glad that he wants to work out with me, but I hate that he won’t run as far as he can. I hate that I’m holding him back.

I want to scream.

So I push harder, and I race ahead of him.

Not long after, Ryke catches up to my side again, and then he taps my shoulder and veers off the collegiate track towards the bleachers. I follow him, trying to avoid the other athletes in Penn shirts as they sprint down the lanes.

I probably shouldn’t have driven all the way to Penn to run around a f*cking circle with Ryke, seeing as how I was expelled and he’s not my favorite person at the moment. I don’t believe that he’s the guy threatening to reveal Lily’s secret to the tabloids. There’s mistrust in our relationship, sure, but he spends too much time driving me to therapy and hanging out with me to have some ulterior motive. He could let me ride alone to New York and give me just enough slack to hang myself with.

He could be uncaring.

But Ryke Meadows is many things—uncaring is definitely not one of them.

I gave him a hard time about the text messages because I’m an *, and a huge part of me resents him for things that I can barely process. Each time I try to understand his childhood where he knew about me and had contact with my father, my hands shake for a sip of something strong.