Page 125 of Lucky 14

There’s a knock at the door, but the person doesn’t wait for an answer; they just push the door open, then close it behind him.

It’s Oakley.

“Go away,” I groan, squeezing my eyes closed to ward off the voices in my head that are already starting.

No. I need the knots in the wood again. Need to count them.

There’s the clinking of the empty alcohol bottles around my bed, then the bed dips, and Oakley is pressing into my side.

The contact feels familiar. Warm. It promises the escape I want. It promises a distracting thrill.

I press my eyes closed again.

“I’m sorry.” Then, Oakley’s arm wraps around my chest, pulling me toward him. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”

I huff, even while the warmth of his arm seeps through me.

“Please talk to me again.” His head is buried in my shoulder, and his voice vibrates through my muscles. “I miss you.”

“You miss the crazy person?” I can’t keep the bitter words from coming out. As they do, tears sting my eyes. Oakley isn’t different from anyone else. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

“I don’t think you’re crazy.” Oakley moves, and I can tell he’s popped his head up to look at me.

Still, I refuse to look at him. But I can feel his gaze boring into my face. I want what he says to be true. I really do. But I just…can’t.

“Ky,” his voice is soft now. Pleading, even. “If I thought you were crazy, would I do this?”

I feel him shift, and then he’s pressing into my lips. My eyes flutter open, and he’s right there, kissing me. His eyes hooded when he sees mine, and he kisses me harder, pressing into me with more weight. And he feels so good. So right. It makes my chest hurt with how much I want him.

But I can’t.

I shove Oakley off me, and it causes physical pain to move through my upper body. What hurts more is the wince he gives, looking at me like I stabbed him.

We can’t. I can’t let Oakley drown us, too.

Sure we can. Get him.

I shake my head as the voices prove Oakley correct. Maybe I really am crazy.

Oakley watches me like I shot him. Slowly, he takes a deep breath. Then he licks his lips. “This is because you’re scared.” He says it like a question.

“Scared?” I shake my head. “You try being called a demon your whole life.”

Oakley watches me, looking like he’s trying to control his breathing. Then, he asks softly, “Who called you a demon?”

“Everyone,” I snap back. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to talk at all.

Only, I do. The longer I stay not touching him, the more I get the urge to launch across the bed and grab him. To pin him down and teach him to call me crazy.

Finally, Oakley nods his head, seemingly deciding on something. Then, he’s sitting up, yanking his shirt off, baring his skin and tattoos to me. For a second, I just stare at him, tracing those delicious muscles and the pretty contrast the dark ink makes against his pale skin. My mouth starts watering before I shake my head to break myself out of it.

“Oakley.”

“I want you,” he says, opening his hands and snaking them across the space between us to touch my torso.

His touch sends a bolt of desire through me, and I have to physically roll myself away, sitting up straight. “What are you doing?” My question is rough.

“Please,” he says, following me with his hands, grabbing my thighs.