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Savage’s nostrils flare, but he takes the hem of my sweater and pulls up. He helps me get it off. I rest my hands on his chest to keep my balance, and his gaze snaps to my face then down an inch to my chest.
I look down too, and I am, indeed, wearing the pink lacy bra.
Yes.
He grinds his teeth audibly.
“Savage,” I whisper softly, and move my arms, loop them around his neck, my gaze imploring. “Can you help me into bed?”
His hands are at his sides, and I don’t like it. I want him so bad, I ache for him. I don’t care if it’s pathetic, or if it’s one night that I’ll regret for the rest of my life, because I just know that touching Savage will ruin me.
I run my hands up the back of his neck and into his dark hair.
His gaze doesn’t flinch. His hands come up and he loops one arm around my waist. He lowers me onto the bed carefully, but he’s not coming down with me.
I pull on him, tipping us backward so that he lands, arms on either side of my body, his hot weight held above mine. His gaze tracks over my face and down to my body, and I swear desire flares in that look. Or maybe I’m lying to myself.
“Hannah, what are you doing?”
“I want you,” I say. “Okay? I want you. Please.”
“Hannah.”
“I want you so bad I can’t think straight,” I whisper. “I want you inside me.”
“No.”
“No?”
He shakes his head firmly. “No. You and I will never happen,” he says. The last two words are sharp and harsh. “Never.” And then he pushes off the bed and looks away. “Get under the covers.”
My insides boil with shame, and I crawl under the duvet and drag it up to my chin. Tears prick at the sides of my eyes, and I turn my back on him. Hating that I tried, hating that I want him.
He switches off the light. “Goodnight, Hannah.”
The memory runs on repeat through my mind, and it’s so clear, the pain, the shame, Savage’s expression when he told me he would never want me, that it’s like I’m reliving it for the fiftieth time. I keep torturing myself with that memory, and it makes me angry.
Why? What’s wrong with me?
Because I’m Cash’s sister? Because he doesn’t find me attractive?
Either way, he’s made it clear that he doesn’t want me. And I’ve made it clear that I want him. And now, it’s awkward, and I simply cannot be trapped with him watching my every move.
I can’t even be in the same town as him. How am I going to survive him being around me constantly?
I forced myself onto him. I made a fool of myself. I upset him.
And I’m never getting drunk in front of him ever again. Not only did I lose my dignity, but I lost my mother’s bracelet and my favorite lipstick that night.
“You’re okay, this is fine,” I say, into my empty living room. “He’s out there, and you’re in here, and you are never going to act the fool around him ever again. You are never going to tell him you want him again. You’re going to leave. Simple. It’s only a couple of weeks until you go, so…”
And now, I was talking to myself like a crazy person.
I force myself off my sofa and get ready for bed. I shower, brush my teeth and put on my comfiest PJs—pink cotton shorts and a cotton strappy top—and then I shut off the lights and lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling.
“No. You and I will never happen.” The words, rumbled in his deep voice, come back to me again and again.
“Ugh. Stop it. Stop.”
