Ugly Love: A Novel(58)

“He’s in my class,” I say. “We were studying.”

I can feel the tension rolling off him, and I’m not even facing him. “For three hours?”

I spin around and face him, but the expletives I want to scream get caught in my throat when I see him. He’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, gripping the door frame over his head. I can tell he hasn’t worked in a few days, because his jaw is lined with a thin layer of stubble. He’s barefoot, and his shirt has risen up with his arms, revealing that V.

At first, I stare at him.

Then I yell at him.

“If I want to screw a guy in my bedroom for three hours, then good for me! You aren’t at all entitled to have an opinion about what goes on in my life. You’re a jerk, and you have serious issues, and I don’t want to be a part of them anymore.”

I’m lying. I really do want to be a part of his issues. I want to immerse myself in his issues and become his issues, but I’m supposed to be this independent, headstrong girl who doesn’t cave just because she likes a guy.

His eyes are narrowed, and his breaths are coming hard and fast. He drops his arms and walks swiftly to me, grabbing my face, forcing me to look up at him.

His eyes are frantic, and knowing that he’s scared that I’ve moved on feels way too good. He waits several seconds before speaking, allowing his eyes to roam over my face. His thumbs brush lightly across my cheekbones, and his hands feel protective and good, and I absolutely hate that I want them everywhere right now. I don’t like who he turns me into.

“Are you sleeping with him?” he asks, finally resting his eyes on mine as they search for truth.

That’s none of your business, Miles.

“No,” I say instead.

“Have you kissed him?”

Still not your business, Miles.

“No.”

He closes his eyes and exhales, relieved. He drops his hands to the bar on either side of me and lowers his forehead to my shoulder.

He doesn’t ask me another question.

He’s hurting, but I don’t know what the hell to do about it. He’s the only one who can change things between us, and as far as I know, he’s still not willing to do that.

“Tate,” he says in a pained whisper. His face moves to my neck, and one of his hands grips my waist. “Dammit, Tate.” His other hand moves to the back of my head as his lips rest against the skin of my neck. “What do I do?” he whispers. “What the fuck do I do?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, because the confusion and pain in his voice are unbearable. I shake my head. I shake it because I don’t know how to answer a question that I don’t even know the meaning behind. I also shake my head because I don’t know how to physically push him away.

His lips meet the spot just below my ear, and I want to pull him closer and push him as far away as I can. His mouth continues to move across my skin, and I feel my neck tilting so that he can find even more of me to kiss. His fingers tangle in my hair as he grips the back of my head to hold me still against his mouth.

“Make me leave,” he says, his voice pleading and warm against my throat. “You don’t need this.” He’s kissing his way up my throat, breaking for breath only when he speaks. “I just don’t know how to stop wanting you. Tell me to go, and I’ll go.”

I don’t tell him to go. I shake my head. “I can’t.”

I turn my face toward his just as he’s worked his way up to my mouth, then I grab his shirt and pull him to me, knowing exactly what I’m doing to myself. I know this time won’t end any prettier than the other times, but I still want it just as much. If not more.

He pauses and looks me hard in the eyes. “I can’t give you more than this,” he whispers as a warning. “I just can’t.”

I hate him for saying that but respect it just the same.

I respond by pulling him closer until our lips meet. We open our mouths at the exact same time and completely devour each other. We’re frantic, pulling at each other, moaning, digging into each other’s skin.

Sex, I remind myself. It’s just sex. Nothing more. He’s not giving me any other part of him.

I can tell myself that all I want, but at the same time, I’m taking, taking, taking as much as I can get. Deciphering every sound he makes and every touch, attempting to convince myself that what he’s giving me is so much more than what it probably is.

I’m a fool.

At least I’m a self-aware fool.

I unbutton his jeans, and he unfastens my bra, and before we’re even in my bedroom, my shirt is off. Our mouths never separate as he shuts my door, then yanks off my bra. He pushes me onto the bed and pulls off my jeans, then stands and removes his own.

It’s a race.

It’s Miles and me against everything else.

We’re racing our consciences, our pride, our respect, the truth. He’s trying to get inside me before any of the rest of that stuff catches up to us.

As soon as he’s back on the bed, he’s over me, against me, then inside me.

We win.

His mouth finds mine again, but that’s all it does. He doesn’t kiss me. Our lips touch and our breath collides and our eyes meet, but there isn’t a kiss.

What our mouths are doing is so much more than that. With every thrust inside me, his lips slide over mine, and his eyes grow hungrier, but he never once kisses me.