Page 93 of Make Me Mean It

This is fucking stupid.

His teeth catch the split in my lip and pain tears through it, dragging a hiss from me. Blood floods my tongue, metallic and warm, but I only kiss him harder, chasing his mouth until Connor makes a sound against mine that goes straight through me.

His mouth moves against mine again, and all I can see is that same mouth against the rim of the glass, seconds from swallowing whatever Darren put in it.

I tear myself away.

Cold air hits my wet lips as I force myself back, putting enough space between us that I can actually think again.

“I can’t,” I rasp.

Connor stares at me, his lips parting.

“Not after-”

I can’t finish it. The image is already there again, sitting behind my eyes until my stomach turns.

“He spiked your fucking drink.”

“I know.”

Connor sounds steadier than either of us has any right to be, but his hands tell a different story. They’re still twisted into the front of my shirt, a tremor running through his fingers.

Every bit of heat left in me turns cold.

Connor Reid, who needs everything exactly where he expects it, is gripping my shirt with shaking hands.

“I want this.”

I take a step back, the air punching out of my lungs, but Connor’s fingers come with me, fabric pulling taut between us until I look down at his fists and then straight back at him.

I need a reason not to believe him.

I look for one. His eyes, his pupils, the way he’s holding himself. Anything off. Anything that gives me an excuse to put him back inside with Marcus and walk the fuck away before I make this worse.

“Connor, I’m-”

His mouth cuts me off, swallowing whatever warning I was about to give him, and a groan rips from my chest as my eyes close. His mouth moves over mine with none of the hesitation I was trying so hard to find, tongue dragging across my lips until I open for him.

“Just shut up,” he gets out against my mouth, his breath uneven before he plants both hands against my chest and shoves.

“Christ,” I hiss, my back hitting brick, Connor following me in.

“How much have you had?”

I push away from the wall, but Connor puts his palm flat against my chest, pinning me straight back against it.

My breath catches with Connor’s palm planted directly over my heart, every frantic beat thudding straight into his hand. There’s no way he can’t feel it.

“Nothing.”

I stare at him for a second. “Nothing?”

Connor’s brows pull together. “I didn’t fucking drink it, Theo.”

His eyes are clear and fixed straight on mine. No haze. No delay when he follows me. Nothing loose or unfocused about the way he’s standing there with one hand still planted firmly against my chest.

He’s shaken, not drunk.