Addicted(35)

“Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I beat myself up every day, every night, for letting that happen to you? For letting him anywhere near you? And then you stand in that f*cking parking lot and tell me that I remind you of him? That you look at me and see him?

“What did you think I was going to do with that, baby? What did you think that was going to do to me? To us? You’ve already suffered so much in your life. If walking away from you means I could stop just a little bit of that pain, if it means I could keep you from being hurt any more, do you think I wouldn’t do it?

“I would do anything for you, Chloe, even sit in a room with you all day and pretend I’m not dying to touch you.”





Chapter Nine


Ethan’s words hang in the air between us, and for long seconds I can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted to hear, everything I’ve needed to hear. That someone loves me. That they put me first. That they care about me. Just me.

The only boyfriend I ever had before Ethan tried to bet my virginity in a poker game.

My parents sold my silence after I was raped for the capital to start their business.

The people I thought were my friends turned on me the second Brandon told them to.

I’ve never been enough. Never been good enough, never been important enough for anyone to choose me first.

Except Ethan. Ethan chose me weeks ago and I was too hurt, too blind to see it. And he’s choosing me again, right here, right now, if only I’m strong enough to let him. If only I’m strong enough to choose him back.

I want to be strong enough.

For a moment, just a moment, Brandon’s face hovers in front of my vision. Eyes flashing, skin flushed, lips curled in a sneer as he calls me a slut, orders me to give it up. As he tells me I owe him for the ride home.

I can still remember the weight of his hand on my mouth, the feel of his fingers fumbling beneath my skirt, ripping my underwear, shoving inside of me.

I can still remember what song was on the radio and how heavy he was on top of me and the way his breath smelled like butterscotch and beer as he slammed his mouth down on mine.

I can still remember everything. Every moment. Every detail. I can still remember how he looked at me when he was done, like I was nothing. Less than nothing.

And when I tried to speak, my parents told me the same thing. That I was nothing compared to him, that his lawyers would annihilate me in court. That I didn’t stand a chance of making him pay unless I signed the non-disclosure agreement. Unless I let them take the cash his family threw at us like confetti.

I’ve spent the last five years feeling like the trash he made me. Feeling like the nothing my parents told me I was. Feeling like the slut Brandon accused me of being.

Ethan is the first one to tell me that it isn’t true. That I’m worth more than what his brother did to me, worth more than what his parents paid to make it all go away.

I believed him once and then that belief shattered under the weight of what I didn’t know. Of what he didn’t tell me. I walked away, not because I didn’t love him, but because I loved him too much. Because I knew that if he treated me like his brother had, if he treated me like his parents or my parents had, that I would break forever.




And here we are, weeks later. Both miserable, both in pain, both broken. And still he’s choosing me, not just over his brother, but over himself. Over his own well-being, over what he wants and needs.

If I love him, how can I do any less?

The answer is, I can’t.

My resolve breaks and with it goes the last ounce of restraint I’ve got. I reach for him, for Ethan, my arms wrapping around his neck as I twine my hands in his hair and pull his mouth down to mine.

The moment our lips meet it’s like all those jagged pieces inside of me suddenly slip back into place. Like all the tears and pain and trauma of the last two weeks just disappear.

“Chloe,” he murmurs against my lips. His hands are around my waist, his fingers stroking under my suit jacket and blouse, finding the sensitive skin of my lower back. “What are you doing?”

“It’s only been two weeks,” I tease him softly, reveling in the feel of his warm breath mingling with mine. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to do this already?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything.” He steps closer, walks me backward across the sand until I’m once again trapped between the cold, hard restaurant wall and his hot, unyielding body. But he lifts his mouth from mine, looks straight into my eyes as he says, “Including the fact that you said you couldn’t be with me. That it hurt you too much.”