Seeing her like this makes guilt flood my insides. I’ve reduced this gorgeous, proud woman to this. Rambling, exhausted, near tears.
I clear my throat, which catches her attention. She props herself up with her arms behind her, which only serves to put her tits on display. Tearing my eyes away, I force myself to look at her face. Her eyes, not her lips. She waves a hand. “Well? Considering you’re the one who wanted to talk so bad it couldn’t wait till I’m awake and dressed, I’m the only one talking. Spit it out. Then go.” She lifts her chin, her eyes glittering with defiance.
And this side of her, this piss and vinegar, this audacious challenging side of her … this gets me going like nothing else. Her curves, her red, red lips—those all turn me on. But that package combined with this attitude? Hell, yes. Give me more.
But I shut those thoughts down. I’m not here for that. And it’s clear that she doesn’t want anything to do with me. Not right now, at least.
“I’m sorry,” I finally manage to grate out.
One delicate eyebrow arches high on her forehead. “You’re sorry? What for? Be specific.”
I clear my throat again, trying to get rid of the gravel clogging it. I could blame it on being tired, but that’s not what has my voice thickening, my breath catching. No, that’s all Viola, giving as good as she gets.
Which only makes me want to push her harder.
But that’s exactly what I’ve decided to stop doing. Dammit.
I suck air into my lungs, hoping it’ll help me calm down. But with that deep breath, I only manage to inhale more of Viola’s scent—something light and fruity. I don’t know if it’s her lotion, perfume, shampoo, or something else, but it only makes it harder to think straight. To think with the head on my shoulders instead of the one currently growing harder between my thighs.
Shifting my stance, I give my dick a little more room, hoping she won’t notice.
“For being a dick. For calling you the wrong name for a long time even after I learned your real name. For keeping you out late and then waking you up today.”
She watches me, her eyes never leaving mine, her pose still that mix of languor and challenge that makes me want to climb on top of her. “And yesterday?” she prompts.
“You mean when you barged into my room?” I cross my arms, a lazy smirk coming to my face as I shake my head. “No. I’m not sorry for that. That’s the risk you take when you come in without knocking.”
Her mouth opens wide in a gasp, and fuck me, but I want her gasping for different reasons. “I knocked,” she protests, sitting up straight. “I knocked two times!” She holds up two fingers in illustration.
I give her a careless shrug in response. “Still. I was in my room. I had every expectation of privacy. You let yourself in. I won’t apologize for you walking in on me. That one’s on you, darlin’.” And she liked it. I don’t push the issue, but I know it’s true, and she does too, somewhere deep down where I’m sure she won’t admit it.
She scowls, crossing her arms again. “Don’t you darlin’ me. I’m definitely not your darlin’.”
With a low chuckle, I shake my head again. “Too true. My apologies once again.” We stare at each other for a prolonged moment, the humor and antipathy dying away as her dark eyes hold mine. “I am sorry,” I repeat, my voice once again husky. “You won’t need to babysit me at night anymore. I’ll come back to the hotel after the shows and keep my … extracurricular activities confined to my dressing room.”
Her lips part like she wants to say something, but I don’t wait around to find out what it is. With a final nod, I cross the room in three strides and let myself out.
I’m clearly still an asshole. And my apology doesn’t go far, especially since I didn’t say even half of what I’d planned. Finding her sleep rumpled and adorable in a ball cap and flimsy tee did things to me. Seeing her frazzled and frustrated and defiant by turns only made those things worse. Harder to ignore.
Or just harder. Period.
Letting myself into my own suite, I waste no time shoving my pants down and taking myself in hand, picturing again the way her lips parted and her eyes widened. Hearing her gasp. Imagining that I’m causing those reactions for very different reasons. That her scowl is playful foreplay and not real irritation.
That she came to my room last night for a drink. That I don’t think she’s already involved with Dave the security guy.
Frustration and arousal meld together with fantasy and the memory of the feel of her body, the taste of her lips, the way she responded so quickly the one time I managed to kiss her. My hand moves faster over my dick, the tight friction almost punishing, my hips snapping as I fuck my own fist until I spurt over my hand and my knees go weak.
Peeling my eyes open, I look down at the mess in disgust. I’m disgusted with myself altogether. I’ve been deserving of the disgust aimed at me from all sides.
I’ve been spiraling since Blaire left. I know it. Everyone knows it.
But I’m tired of being a shithead. I’m tired of forcing everyone to clean up my messes, both literally and figuratively.
And regardless of Viola accepting my apology, I’m determined to stop being an asshole to her.
Kicking off my jeans, I
