Craving The Player (Amateurs In Love Book 1)(84)
My eyes close when I hear his voice, my entire body becoming a burning ball of fire and melting away the ice I let build up inside my chest. Whatever was left of my guard is dropped as I turn around and reach for him. My palms lay flat on his rising chest and I swallow the boulder in my throat before raising my gaze to his, eager to see what’s waiting for me behind those amber eyes.
“Braden,” I choke, legs growing weak from a mix of the alcohol in my belly, my erratically beating heart, and the warmth swimming around in the sheen of his glassy eyes. The smell of whiskey is strong on his breath, reminding me that the sheen in his gaze probably matches the one in mine.
When he doesn’t respond, I suck in a sharp breath and drop my gaze to the black t-shirt that looks as if it was painted on his model-worthy chest.
Jealousy—one of the most unwanted emotions—claws up my skin as I think of every one of the other girls in this club that probably caught his eye tonight. Did he look at them the way he’s looking at me? Like he could take me right here, right now, and not care who watches?
“Why are you here, Sierra?” he slurs, voice rising to be heard over the bass thumping around us. “You shouldn’t be here. Not dressed like that.”
His possessiveness sends shock waves directly to my clit. “What should I be doing then?”
His bottom lip slides between his teeth. “Anything. You prefer staying in, wearing those tiny little cookie monster pyjamas and drinking all of my orange juice. Why not do that?” He sighs heavily and moves his hands up my body to cup my cheeks.
“I didn’t want to come here either. But I’m starting to think it was a good decision.” I lean into his touch and close my eyes, practically purring while attempting to think of my next words carefully. I don’t want to scare him away.
“Stop thinking. Just let me kiss you before you leave. One last time.” He’s begging, not bothering to try and hide it. It makes my heart soar, knowing how desperately he needs me. Even if it’s just for right now. Because I need him too. So much it fucking hurts.
I’ve barely nodded before his lips are on mine, pushing against them with an unspoken goodbye. A goodbye that makes my eyes burn with the fear that I’ve made a mistake. One that I’ll never be able to come back from. He takes my mouth and owns it, pushing forward a million different emotions and feelings that have my entire body in a disarray.
He pulls back slowly, eyebrows scrunched with curiosity, eyes later-focused on my cheek. It’s not until I focus on the wet feeling on my cheeks that I realize I’ve been crying, and that he’s been brushing away every single tear with his thumbs.
“I love you,” I whisper, unable to take the pain of holding back any longer. My voice is so quiet, so broken. The only thing that lets me know he’s heard me is the instant look of fear that spreads across his handsome features.
Noise has never felt as silent as it does right now, as he drops his hands, almost as if my skin has burnt his fingertips. His head shakes, lips parting before meeting again, over and over until he jerks back, nearly tripping over his own feet.
“Fuck. Fuck. I’m sorry,” he sputters, jaw tensing as his eyes harden to stone. “I need to go.”
I stand frozen, my feet glued to the dancefloor of the place I can never come back to. I watch him turn from me and walk away with an urgency that has my chest splitting wide open and my heart slipping to the ground, two severed pieces laying at my feet.
Chapter Thirty-Four
BRADEN
“Who’s hanging a Goddamn picture?” I grumble, my tongue dry as all shit.
The incessant knocking reverberates through the apartment, yanking me from my restless sleep. My hands press to my eyes until I see static.
When the knocking shows no signs of stopping, I grind my teeth together and slowly open my left eye, ignoring the blasting burn in my retina.
“Clayton!” I yell before a throb in my forehead scolds me. A tingle in my arm makes me attempt to shake it out from underneath my head, and I cringe at the pain that shoots through my shoulder at the movement.
It’s not hard to tell the more I wake up that I’m not laying in my bed. And as my vision becomes less and less blurred, I make note of the bathtub and toilet. With a humourless, dark laugh, I drag a hand down my face.
I didn’t even make it to my room last night. What a fucking accomplishment.
My short temper—my favourite side effect of drinking myself into a vomiting mess—begins sparking as the knocking continues. With a hiss, I push myself up off the floor and stand with a slight wobble, my jaw aching as I grip onto the counter for balance.
Ripping the bathroom door open, I shrink away at the brightly lit apartment with an immediate scowl. My attention moves to the front door when I realize the knocking is coming from behind it. With a huff, I look down to double-check to make sure I’m not stark naked and stalk to the door.
“Relax already! Jesus Christ,” I grunt and unlock the door.
I don’t even have the door pulled open an inch before a red-faced blonde is shouldering her way inside and pushing at my chest. She shoves me for a second time, and I take it, not lucky enough to have forgotten the reason that she’s here.
Sierra. It’s always Sierra.
I force myself to stand tall, even when I want to collapse to my knees and beg her to help me go get my girl. My head is pounding, and my thoughts look a lot like scrambled eggs, but the picture of Sierra, so broken and helpless, remains untouched, standing among the mess like a prized possession. It makes me sick, so beyond disgusted with myself.