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I know I’m being harsh, but ask me if I give a fuck.
Not with the tension winding through me.
The need to break the man that tried to steal from me, stealherfrom me sets my blood on a low simmer. Especially when I turn back and take in that soft, sleepy face and throat covered in his bruises.
I find the reason I’m so pissed off is because try as I might, I can’t get her out of my fucking head. Whether she’s in my house or not, she’s always been there. Like a pest that's impossible to irradicate.
She probably always will be.
Instead of arguing, Hannah bites her tongue for once.
I don’t fucking like it.
“Well, I’ll still take the couch. I just need a blanket.”
And so, we’re back to this.
“No.”
She groans, sitting down on the sofa and crossing her arms over her chest and, for a moment, I actually debate on spanking her ass. My patience is holding on by a single thread at this point.
“I’ll sleep here without a blanket, then.”
Jesus Christ.
Stooping down, I reach for her, slip my arms under her when she tries to scramble back, and haul her up against my chest to carry her wedding-style.
“You asshole,” she grits between clenched teeth and I can’t resist the chuckle that claws up my throat before laying her on the bed.
With some dismay, I realize I wasn’t counting on having her face to face with me when I brought her to my very large, very available bed. So close, I can taste the toothpaste on her breath, smell my scent in her hair.
Yeah . . . this is a big fucking problem.
She’s inches away and like there’s a magnet pulling her in against her will, she leans forward, her lips an inch from mine.
My cock begs me to fucking kiss her again. Pull her in, drink her like the last drop of water on the planet. My head tells me to get the fuck out of there.
“Go to sleep, Hannah.”
Forcing my legs to move, I pull back from her and make my way to the door, only pausing when she gives me a soft reply from the bed.
“Goodnight, asshole.”
I shake the little voice out of the back of my head, telling me to stay. That fucker never knows what’s good for him.
“Goodnight, brat.”
Hannah
You know that heat that makes you feel like your limbs weigh a thousand pounds? The kind that makes it hard to breathe? To take a drink even though you obviously need it because, with the sweltering sun overhead, you sweat it all back out within the hour?
Yeah, that’s the kind of heat that settles over LA the day after my attack.
The concealer I’d put on this morning to cover the dark blue and purple bruises vanishes without a trace by eleven. The mascara I’d vainly worn is all but gone, having dripped off my face to find cooler weather by the time noon rolls around.
By one, I’m nearly exhausted and I’m sure the guys in the garage aren’t feeling any better. Ian and Puke have already come to interrogate me about my throat and though I gave them the cliff notes version, between them and Mason peering through the garage window all day to check on me, I’m mentally exhausted, as well.
This morning, Mason tried to tell me to stay home, but being in his house, surrounded by his . . .everythingall day just didn’t seem like a good idea.
