Page 115 of Make Me Mean It

And because I have absolutely no instinct for self-preservation, my attention finds Connor again.

I don’t even need to turn properly. One glance from the corner of my eye is enough to catch the flush sitting high across his cheeks and the way his fingers are wrapped around that poor book.

His eyes drop to the open front of my shirt, linger over my chest and stomach, then drag themselves back up with enough irritation that my tongue runs slowly over my bottom lip.

Connor can call the other night whatever the fuck he wants. His body clearly didn’t get the memo.

Satisfaction spreads warm and mean through my chest, easing something that’s been raw there for the last three days.

Connor snaps his book shut and gets to his feet. “I’m gonna head out.”

His voice is steady enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know how Connor sounds when he’s holding on to his temper by his fucking fingernails. Unfortunately for him, I’ve made something of a hobby out of causing it, and instead of leaving him alone like I probably should, I settle more comfortably against the wall and let my shirt fall farther open.

Connor’s gaze drops straight to my chest.

Heat kicks through me, but this time I don’t let myself look away from it. I watch his eyes catch on the bare strip of my stomach before snapping back to my face, my mouth curving.

“Don’t wanna stay for the show, Reid?”

His glare could strip paint, and fuck, I’ve missed it.

“Is your date supposed to be impressed that you can’t button up a shirt?”

A laugh slips out of me as it finally clicks. Three days of Connor barely looking at me, acting like the whole thing was some terrible fucking mistake, and now he’s standing there glaring because I’m going out with someone else. The satisfaction that rolls through me is probably meaner than it should be, but fuck him. He doesn’t get to tell me he regrets touching me and then look at me like he wants to tear apart anyone else who might.

I fish my keys from my pocket, letting them swing loosely from one finger. “Less for him to undo.”

Lucas whoops from somewhere behind me while Marcus chokes on whatever he’s drinking, but their reactions barely register, because Connor has gone completely still.

His eyes stay locked on mine now, all that careful avoidance finally gone, and the anger burning there is so obvious I can practically feel it from across the room.

Connor looks like he wants to come over here and knock the smirk straight off my face, and the only thing keeping him planted beside that couch is probably Marcus and Lucas watching us.

Because Connor doesn’t make scenes. He doesn’t lose his temper in front of people or let anyone see when something gets beneath all that neat, polished control.

Except I’ve seen what happens when it breaks.

Better yet, I know I can break it.

I turn for the door before staring at Connor turns into something even stupider, like crossing the room and finding out whether he’d still look at me like that with my hands on him.

“Oi, Knox,” Marcus calls behind me. “Drop Connor on your way?”

My steps slow, some stupid part of me reacting to the idea of having Connor alone again, before he shuts it down with a firm, immediate, “No.” My fingers tighten around the keys as Marcus raises a brow at him.

“You’d rather walk?”

“Yes.”

I clench my jaw and keep heading for the door, already reaching for the handle when Marcus calls after me to wait, and Connor talks over him with another refusal. I stop with my hand hovering near the door and exhale slowly through my nose.

Jesus fucking Christ. Can I just fucking leave?

“Will you two make up your minds?” I turn back, keys digging into my palm. “I’m gonna be late.”

Marcus barely acknowledges me. He’s too busy staring Connor down with that particular expression he gets when he’s decided he knows what’s best for everyone in the room.

“Stop acting like a child. Take the ride. It’s late.”