Addicted to Mr Parks (The Parks Series #2)(29)

Those green eyes of his suddenly lit up, and he pulled me into his arms. “Then you need to stay with me. I’m your solace; you said it yourself. Don’t do this.”

His pleading tone had me deflating in his arms. Had me doing something I would never normally do. Give in. He kissed along my jaw and down my neck and lay down with me, stroking my hair away from my forehead.

“This time we stay with each other. Wrapped in each other. No running.”

“No running,” I whispered, starring dreamily into his eyes.

If we were going to make it work, then we had to try our best not to turn it into a nightmare. My entire life had been a living nightmare. Nothing ever went right for me, and I’d got used to that. But I yearned desperately for normality, and if Parks and I had any chance of that four-letter word—hope—then there was to be no running.





Chapter Eleven





It was a good half hour until the silence of the room was filled with words again. Neither of us wanted to spoil the embrace we’d adapted to with my head cuddled into the crook of his neck and one of my thighs covering his waist. His arm around my shoulder held me tight as he lay on his back and stared up to the ceiling. It was me who spoiled it by disentangling myself, as I needed the loo.

“Hold it.” He smirked, trying to pull me back into him. He was unbelievable.

I did my business and padded back to the bed, only aware of my naked form when his ravenous eyes admired every inch of my curves.

“You’re so brave.”

I swallowed, feeling surprisingly unashamed of my nakedness. “How do you figure that out?” I crawled back onto the bed with him, but my attempt to pull the sheets over my body ceased as he swiped them out of my hands.

“Hours ago, you wouldn’t show me your body. You hid your scars away from me because all these years they have been partly to blame for your fragility. Now you sit before me naked and beautiful. And I praise you immensely for that.”

I hid the vast amount of gratitude that came over me from his words by looking into my lap. Part of me was slightly pessimistic. No one ever said those things about me, so I wasn’t sure how I should react to it.

“Hey.” He jerked up my chin with his thumb. “Don’t look away from me when I’m praising you.” Opening up the sheets, he invited me back into bed, and I accepted, curling my body around his.

“I’m just not use to praise,” I admitted.

“Well, get used to it. Because praise is all I will ever give you.”

Spooning naked, we listened to Ed Sheeran’s “Kiss Me” playing in the background while I secretly soaked up all his words. Parks was the only man I was susceptible around. I was almost ready to willingly open up and expose myself to him. In the beginning, I was fighting my heart with my head. My heart dragged me along and told me I needed this man, told me he would be good for me. I never drank around him because he made me feel content. The delight he felt for making me happy, pleasuring me, in simply wanting me, was my rapture, my joy, and most importantly, my solace. I felt safe with him because he wanted me. My mind told me to run, because every time I was apart from him, I would get bombarded with feelings and emotions I couldn’t deal with on my own. Then I drank to suppress them and keep them at bay because I knew I couldn’t have something that made me feel good about myself. I didn’t deserve it.

“You should be my therapist.” I laughed.

“Stop,” he asserted. “But,” he went on earnestly, before pressing a kiss to the back of my head, “that brings me to my next condition.”

I propped up on an elbow, a smirk mastering my lips. “You have more conditions?”

“Yes.” Before he continued, he dipped to kiss my nose. “That tattoo on the back of your neck—” I remained silent, “—I realise it’s personal to you, but what I demand is that you do not get any more of those hideous things on your sweet body.”


I rolled my eyes and pretended to yawn. We’d already had this conversation. “I was actually thinking about getting a sleeve.” His eyes went wide, his expression horrified, which made me laugh until my stomach hurt.

He cleared his throat. “When you’re finished, I’ll carry on with my third condition.” I stopped laughing immediately, feeling infantile. “I would like you to meet an excellent therapist. Her name is Nia Malone—”

Recoiling, I backed away from him and swiped my hands to cut of his words. “Didn’t we just have this conversation? Just because you f*cked me doesn’t mean I’m going to change my mind. I am not seeing any doctor. I don’t need one.” His brusque sigh told me I had no choice, but he was wrong. I did. “I’m not sitting in front of a stranger just to hear her tell me what I already know about myself.”

Parks groaned loudly as he pushed off the bed. “Why do Brits always snub their noses up at therapists?”

“That’s insulting!”

“It wasn’t a statement, it was a question.” The smugness he had about the subject pissed me off. He looked at me like I was already a patient on the doctor’s list and ready to be seen, no discussion. “Help is what I intend to give you, Evelyn. A doctor is the start.”

“Fuck you,” I snapped, jumping out of bed and dragging a shirt of his with me to slip on as I went.