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“Nah. You’re the one mixing up things, Princess.” I put my hand on her face, and her lips part on a sharp breath. “I wanna kiss you. I’ve wanted to since the first time I saw you. You’re so pretty. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
She swallows hard. “Rid…”
“Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you. Say it.”
“I can’t…”
“I don’t care about that. Tell me what you want.”
Her skin is hot under my palm, hot and soft like a butterfly wing. Her eyes are so big they look like moons. “You know what I want.”
“You’re obsessed with a story. Life ain’t no Disney movie, sweetheart. And you don’t need a prince for a happy ending.”
“What would you know about it?”
Good point. Still… “Tell me you don’t want me. That you’re not wondering what it would feel like to get naked with me. To kiss, and to fuck. How it would feel if I touched you. If I went down on you. How good I could make it for you.”
She stands up and steps back, away from me. Her breathing is uneven, her tits rising and falling as if she’s been running. “I’m not wondering.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I tell her, my voice going sharp. “Take care of yourself, Princess.”
I’m tired.
Tired of wanting things I can’t have. Simple things, like a functional family, like not fearing for the lives of my mom and brother, not having to kill myself working for the rent.
Not coming home to an empty apartment. It’s damn lonely.
It’s damn sad.
At least she’s going after what she desires. Who am I to knock it? Ryan is handsome, he has money, and hey, he saved my ass from falling the other day. Maybe he’s nice, deep inside. Maybe he’ll change his mind and haul Brylee to Vegas for a weekend wedding.
Maybe that’s what will make them both happy. Who am I to stand in the way, even if it all seems so fucking wrong?
What the fuck do I know, right?
Chapter Twelve
Rock Hard Baba
Ryan
The long living room is chilly, the corner sconces barely shedding any light. Outside the bay windows, the day is gray, a light layer of snow on the ground giving the world a washed-out cast.
“You’re not eating,” my father says.
I squint at him. He’s a dim, dark figure at the other end of the goddamn miles-long dining table, his fork a tiny spark in the dark when he lifts it to his mouth.
“I am eating.” I move the potatoes around in my plate. Spear one.
Glance again at the window.
“You should take care of your health.”
“I am, sir.”
“Are you?”
Such a déjà vu scene.
