Wild (The Ivy Chronicles #3)(49)

Releasing my face, he grabbed my hand and pulled me after him. At the door leading to the loft, I dug in my heels and stepped in front of him. “You don’t get to come up.” My chin lifted in a show of bravado. Courage that was hard to cling to when he looked so furious . . . with the front of his shirt wet with the beer I’d thrown at him.

“Key.” The single word dropped like a stone between us. He nodded at my bag, that nerve still ticking near his eye.

I hesitated a moment before moving, my fingers fumbling until I pulled my key out of my bag. He plucked it from my hand and unlocked my door.

I braced myself, determined not to move until he left. Me and him upstairs? Together as mad as we were? Alone? Yeah, not a good idea. I was so not on board with that.

Swinging the door open, I didn’t stand a chance though. He ignored my sputtered protest and ushered us inside the stairwell.

He shut the door with a dull thud and we were engulfed in shadows. I moved up and turned on the third step, determined to go no farther. I would not let him bulldoze over me. This ended here.

I’d left a lamp on in the loft above and a dim gold light trickled down into the stairwell, gilding the lines and planes of his face. Standing one step above him, we were almost eye-level, and I seized the advantage, letting it embolden me. “You’re not coming up here.” My voice fell loudly, echoing in the tomblike space.

“Scared of what I’ll do to you?”

My pulse jackknifed against my throat. His eyes glittered like an animal’s in the shadows of the stairwell. The air was electric, like he would erupt any moment into fire and ash.

He was still pissed at me, but there was something else in the air, too. Something that brought to mind the hot press of his body pinning me to the bathroom door . . . ordering me not to move my hands from above my head.

“No one does anything to me,” I countered.

He laughed almost cruelly. “Your whole life has been others doing things to you. Deciding how your life is going to be. Your parents. Your douche ex.”

The accusation enraged me. I didn’t want it to be true, but a piece of me buried deep acknowledged that he wasn’t totally wrong.

He continued, “You’re like that guitar of yours. Buried away from the world where no one can see or touch you.”

“Shut up,” I hissed.

“You’re scared,” he pressed. “From the moment you took me on you’ve been wondering what the hell you’re doing getting tied up with a guy that doesn’t fit into your vanilla life.” He took another step, and damn it, he was taller than me again, encroaching like an invading tank. “But you want it. You want to be with the kind of guy who will retaliate when his girl has a tantrum and splashes a drink in his face.”

His girl?

The words simultaneously thrilled and terrified me, sparking something deep and tugging at the part of me that I kept hidden. The Georgia buried deep. Just like my guitar. He was right. Panic blossomed in my chest with the realization. Everything he said was true. He saw me. I felt stripped bare. I couldn’t hide anymore.

I swallowed. “I’m not your girl.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You are. You just haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Oh, so now you’re deciding things for me,” I charged, diving for the words almost desperately.

“No. I didn’t decide it. You did. The moment you kissed me. I thought I would give you a little more time, some space to realize this, but I changed my mind.”

I made a strangling sound. “Oh?”

“About ten minutes ago when I saw that asshat sitting next to you and looking at you like you were his next meal.” He leaned in, forcing me to grab the stairwell wall and arch back from him. “I wanted to f*ck him up and then throw you over my shoulder.” One corner of his mouth lifted, but there was no humor in the play of his lips. “You’ve turned me into a caveman. I’ve never acted this way before.” His eyes looked almost bleak right then. Like he didn’t want to feel this way. I could relate. “You. Me. We’re the real thing, Pearls.” His eyes gleamed in the shadows of the stairwell, willing me to see that, too.

I just couldn’t. The idea of us . . . it was too wrong . . . too crazy.

Shaking my head, I shoved at his chest. His hand locked around my wrist, fingers circling my bones completely, stopping me from pushing him away.

Feeling slightly panicked, I brought my other hand from behind me and shoved harder at him. The momentum sent me falling back on the stairs and he followed, coming over me, one hand circling around my back to soften my fall against the steps.

His knees settled on either side of my hips. I was enveloped in his hardness, in the beer-laced scent of him.

Suffocation by Logan Mulvaney wouldn’t be a bad way to go. The giddy, absurd thought fed my panic and edged me into hysteria. I hit him in the chest with my free hand.

He removed his hand from my back to grab that, too. Now both my hands were trapped between us.

“Let me go,” I growled, tugging on my hands. “Or I’ll . . .” My voice faded as I glared up at his shadowy shape.

I didn’t know what I’d do. I knew what I wanted to do and that scared the hell out of me. Every inch of me buzzed with an achy hunger. I actually hurt for him, but I couldn’t surrender to this. Not again. Not after he just proclaimed me his girl. That would be like me agreeing with him.