Ruined (Barnes Brothers #4)(18)

“Here . . .”

She came to his side but he pulled away. “I can do it,” he snapped.

“Sebastien—”

“Don’t touch me!”

She jerked back, stung.

He saw the hurt in her eyes and he swore, because that was the last thing he’d ever wanted.

“I . . . Marin . . .”

She went to back away and he caught her arms. The strappy tank she wore left too much of her skin bare and the feel of all that softness under his hands hit his alcohol-laden brain hard and fast. The need lingering just under the surface began to pulse through his veins and he throttled it down as he grappled for a way to fix the pain he’d caused.

“It’s not . . . I’m sorry,” he said. “I just . . . I don’t want you having to . . .” He stroked a thumb down her arm. “It’s my own damn fault if I end up on my ass, Marin.”

She tugged away from him again and he let go, his hands falling to his sides, big and empty and useless. She turned away from him and that sense of uselessness increased, only getting worse when she sniffed. Standing a few feet away from him, she cleared her throat. “We should get you sobered up,” she said. “I came out here to talk to you.”

Sebastien didn’t want to sober up and talk, though. He wanted oblivion, wanted to forget the misery he had caused.

She sniffed again and drawn in by the slump of her shoulders, he came up behind her. She’d scooped her hair up, exposing the elegant curve of her neck, the vulnerable nape.

“I’m sorry, Marin,” he murmured.

She went to duck away and he brought his arms up, caging her in by the counter. She tensed.

The scent of her was getting to him and he told himself he needed to listen to her—get some food in him, some water, take a shower . . . sober up—instead, he dropped his head down on her shoulder. The nearness of her already had him rock hard and all the months of celibacy began to whisper like demons in his ear.

But when she sighed and turned around, he didn’t do anything.

This was Marin and she’d made it clear she didn’t want him.

“It’s okay, Sebastien.” She reached up and touched his cheek. Her thumb slid over the scar.

He caught her wrist, ready to tug her hand away—he’d take her touch anyway he could get it, but not there.

Except Marin wasn’t easily deterred, a fact he’d learned all too well over the past year. “You need to stop drowning your demons in alcohol and you’ve got to stop chasing them down yourself. They do a good enough job finding you on their own.”

With his thumb pressed against the inside of her wrist, he searched for something to say in response.

“I don’t—” But he had to stop, because he wasn’t sure she was wrong. He’d thought he was running from them, but they always caught up to him when the nights were quiet. Back when he’d been drinking them away, they’d be there waiting when the fog of alcohol cleared. Now, at night, when he lay awake, they were just . . . there.

Too often, he’d drift to sleep only to jerk awake in a panic, thinking he was back on that sidewalk again, staring down Hanson while time slowed to a crawl as they grappled for the knife.

“You don’t what?” Marin stared at him challengingly.

“I killed a man. And it was all for nothing, because I didn’t save her,” he said hoarsely. “And now . . . hell, Marin. Look at me. I’m nothing now. And do you see how they talk about her? What did she do?”

He threw out his arms as he said, his voice scathing, “How did Monica push that fabulous artist over the edge? Where did she go wrong? They blame her!” he shouted.

“And . . .” His voice hitched. “Sometimes I do, too. Because if she hadn’t left me . . . Fuck. If she hadn’t left me, she’d be alive. And I wouldn’t have killed him. I wouldn’t know what it was like to have blood on my hands. Sometimes, I wish he had been the one to win that fight.”

“No.” The urgency in her voice was echoed in her eyes and Marin leaned in. She was a tall woman and in the shoes she wore, she was almost level with him.

If he hadn’t been so drunk, he might have realized what she was going to do and he could have pulled back, because it was something that would snap his fragile control.

But if he hadn’t been so drunk, none of this would have happened to begin with.

Marin’s hand slid to the back of his neck and she tugged him closer. At the same time, she pressed her lips to his, speaking softly. “No,” she said again. “Don’t you ever say that.”

The second her mouth touched his, Sebastien’s thoughts faded . . . stopped . . . died.

Say what?

Her mouth was on his.

Marin was kissing him.

It wasn’t in front of a camera.

It wasn’t for a publicity shoot.

She was kissing him.

It was one of those friendly little pecks—the kind one friend might give another. It will be okay . . . That’s all the kiss meant and he knew it.

At least, that’s all it meant to her.

But for him . . .

In the span of a second, it seemed a million thoughts rolled through his mind. He wanted to grab her, pull her against him, and deepen the kiss.

He wanted to take her to the floor, spread her thighs, and come inside her—although he’d need to get her naked first.