Dirty Headlines(52)
“Like what you see?” I gritted sarcastically.
“It would look better with my hand marks all over it. Are you going to stop running?”
“Are you going to explain yourself?” I pushed the door to the building open, and we were on the busy sidewalk, facing each other and blocking the downtown human traffic by standing there like two statues.
He ran his big palm over his face, and for the first time since I’d met him, looked somewhat affected. I shouldn’t have felt so triumphant for being the one who’d put agitation there, but I was.
“It’s not like that.”
“Then tell me what’s it like.”
“I didn’t pay it because I wanted you happy or content or on your fucking knees.”
“Really? Did you know Jessica’s mother has Alzheimer’s? Did you help her out? And what about Brianna, your PA? Did you pay her student loan debt? Oh, let me guess—Elijah, who you actually talk to pretty often, also didn’t get a fat bonus this year so he could help his parents with their remortgaged house.”
“How do you know all these things?” He frowned.
“They’re my colleagues, my new friends, and I talk to them.” I flung my arms in the air. “Maybe you should do that sometime. Actually make an effort. Be nice.”
His jaw tensed and locked in anger, and I figured I had two choices: either get out of there or slap him across the face, a treatment he’d earned fair and square. I chose the option that wouldn’t land me in hot water with HR. I turned around and crossed the street toward the Duane Reade on the other side of the road. The light was green, but New York drivers were being…well, New York drivers. A purple taxi came to a halt, screeching three inches away from me and sputtering a cloud of black smoke. The scent of burned rubber filled my nostrils, and before I knew what was happening, I was on the ground.
Shielded by Célian’s body.
All of him.
On top of me.
On the hot, stony crosswalk.
I squirmed against his hard body, balling my fists and hitting his chest on instinct. I was angry. So angry. Beyond reason, belief, and logic. Another girl might feel elated to be saved—both by a man’s money and his own body. But it wasn’t just my debt, or Dad and Célian lying to me. It was the fact that I had begun to truly care for him, knowing I could never have him. Not really.
“The heart is a lonely hunter, Jude.”
No, no, it’s not, Mom. It’s the prey, and Célian is digging his claws deep into it.
“Get off of me,” I seethed.
His nostrils flared, but he did as I said, offering me his hand after gliding back onto his feet. I took it, still disoriented from being thrown to the ground—by him. People gathered around us on the sidewalk, watching. Célian sent a punch to the taxi’s hood, denting it in the shape of his fist.
I yelped. From this angle, it looked like he might have broken every bone in his hand, but if it hurt, he didn’t let it show. His face was back to being scarily blank and emotionless.
“Hey, man! What the hell!” The taxi driver stuck his head out his window, waving an angry fist in our direction.
“Hell is what I’m about to unleash on your ass. You had a red light and almost ran over my employee, so I pimped your ride. If you have a problem with it, you’re welcome to take it up with the team of fucking lawyers who occupy an entire floor in my building.”
The driver said nothing, tucking his head back into his taxi and cursing under his breath.
Célian looked like he was about to explode, and I had to pull him into an alleyway between two buildings and plaster him against the wall, squeezing his shoulders. His breathing was hard and slow, like the mere act hurt him.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, then shook his head. “Are you?”
“Yes. He didn’t hit me, Célian.”
The taxi wouldn’t have run me over even without his help. I knew Célian had just had a knee-jerk reaction after what he’d been through with Camille, and I felt horrible for my lack of sensitivity. The light was green, so I’d just gone for it.
“Do yourself a favor and look left and right before you cross the fucking street,” he hissed in annoyance, suddenly looking embarrassed and disturbed.
His armor clattered to the ground, and I saw him for what he was: raw and incredibly tormented over what had happened to his sister, broken by his relationships with his father and fiancée, lost in a sea of people who admired and looked up to him, but were always too scared to show him real love.
“You wanted to save my life.” I cupped his cheek, not knowing if I should, but not caring much, either.
He put his hand over mine and scanned me from under his thick lashes, his throat bobbing with a swallow. His pulse slowed under his tailored suit, and we were now breathing in sync. It was reckless to touch him anywhere but behind closed doors, but I couldn’t help it. His eyes were crushed ice—beautiful, blue, and tarnished.
He clasped my chin between his fingers and brought my mouth to his. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart.”
He cupped my breast over the fabric of my dress and squeezed, tonguing me ruthlessly without warning. My mouth fell open and accepted the invasion. I wrapped my arms around his neck, grinding myself against him and knowing this was not enough, not even close to it. I wanted to get rid of our clothes, our underwear, our inhibitions. I wanted to strip down to the very last item on my body, then tell him all my secrets with every thrust and kiss and bite.