Diary of a Bad Boy(49)
Now he’s pulling away. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut.
“It was having a rough go of it last night, and I just . . . fuck.” He sighs and throws both legs over the side of the bed, ready to retreat, but I grab his shoulders before he can.
“Don’t go, Roark. Talk to me. Why was it a rough night?”
“You won’t understand.”
As if he slapped me, I rear back, insulted. “I might not be tortured like you, Roark, but I pride myself on being empathetic.”
The hurt in my voice must register because he sets the coffee down and turns around, regret on his face. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“Well, you did.”
Sighing, he leans back against the headboard of my bed and tugs on my hand until I’m straddling his lap. His hands go to my thighs, softly rubbing them up and down. It’s moments like this that absolutely confuse me. When did we get to this point? This intimate part of our relationship where I feel like we could tackle anything together, where I want to hear about all his troubles and smooth the crease between his brow with my soft encouragement.
Where was that turning point?
This is why I’m confused, because right now, this is what I want with him, and he gives it to me in small doses but doesn’t fully commit.
Be patient, I remind myself.
“I’m sorry, Sutton. I didn’t mean to insult you. You just have this perfect relationship with your dad, and that’s not the case with my family.”
Leaning forward, I press my hand against his chest. “Is that why you were upset yesterday?”
His hands climb up to my waist and he pulls me closer so our chests are almost touching. He glides his hands to my butt where he holds on tightly and rests his head against the headboard so his Adam’s apple pops. I’m tempted to lean forward and taste his neck, to run my tongue along the column then to his lips where I would desperately devour him.
“Yeah.” His grip on me goes tighter. “My parents are . . . hell, they’re awful.” I really can’t believe he’s opening up to me. I sit back and listen, my hand slowly rubbing against his thick chest. “I grew up in a small town outside of Killarney. The best earning job is farming, and that’s not what I wanted with my life. I did a foreign exchange program at Yale, liked it so much I stayed and studied there. I knew America was where I wanted to be, where I was going to make the most of myself. My parents didn’t take too kindly to that. Still don’t. They didn’t care much for me growing up, always relied on me as a second pair of hands rather than treating me like a child, so when they found out I was earning money, they started calling every month, laying on the guilt trip that I owe it to my family to provide for them.”
My brow pulls together. “They call you for money?”
“Like clockwork. And I give it to them every time.”
“What for?”
One of his hands leaves the grip on my backside so he can pull on his hair in frustration. “Easier that way. I listen to the emotional abuse my mom spins at me, ask her how much, and then wire it.”
“Roark,” I sigh, pressing my hand to his cheek. “Family should never use you like that.”
“I know.” The sad look in his eyes, the frustration in his muscles, it almost breaks me to see him like this. “It’s another reason I can’t have you. The minute they find out I’m dating the daughter of Foster Green, the demands would be endless.”
And it feels like the real reason starts to surface. He’s not only protecting me from the self-destructive habits he seems to have, but from his family as well.
Knowing that makes me more determined to be in his life. A friend. His confidante. Someone who doesn’t take from him but gives back.
Not wanting to offer empty suggestions, I try to soothe his soul by shifting my hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Roark, but I will tell you this. You’ll never see me want you for anything except the man who lives inside of you.”
His eyes flick toward mine, the green so beautifully mossy this morning, even after a heavy night of drinking. His hand slides up my back, dragging the shirt with him as he slowly dances his fingers over my skin. “You’re special, Sutton.”
“And don’t you think it’s time you have something special in your life?”
Head tilted, he studies me. “I want something special, that’s for damn sure.” His jaw works side to side as he thinks, his eyes searching mine. Finally, he says, “I have this event I have to go to next week, would you want to go?”
My pulse skips a beat as a smile pulls on my lips. “Like, as a date?”
“Sort of . . . like a business partner.”
And once again hope falls. Frustrated, I slide off his lap and groan as I flop to the side of the bed. Staring up at the ceiling, I feel the bed shift as he hovers above me, his hair falling forward. Before he can get a word in, I say, “You frustrate me.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”
Sitting back, he stands from the bed and picks up our shared mug. He takes a long gulp and hands it to me as I sit up as well. As Roark retreats to the bathroom, I sit there, contemplating my life and how beyond irritating it is. Of course, I grow feelings for the most stubborn man in New York City.
Shoes on, pants zipped, Roark walks back into the room while pulling his long-sleeved shirt over his head. My eyes trained now, they go straight to his naked torso and reluctantly watch him cover it. I was so close and now feel so far.