(Book 2 in If I Could series)
"What do you want, Lily!?" he yelled, his patience on the verge of snapping. "You keep telling me you hate me but clearly you don't, you want me but you won't accept it either. You're stubborn and crazy and I- just tell...
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I had to have lost my goddam mind.
I’d almost orgasmed to Miller’s ministrations against my neck. Then, I’d provoked him so he’d take it further only to have him pull away.
Fuck.
FUCK.
It was his fault.
That laugh. That voice of his laugh as he had chuckled.
It had sent my heart roaring with no satisfaction in sight.
And then I had snapped. At Avery, his assistant of all people. And for what? Because I’d assumed she was flirting with him.
God help me.
I didn’t get jealous. It was not that my heart was burning, screaming, thrashing for me to get this man away from that woman. It was not. I just needed a fresh change of clothes because this gooey thing irked me and then Miller had gone all sappy on me, saying things about our conversation I’d never expected him to remember.
Why did he have to be like that? Why did he have to remember such things that I wanted to forget? Those weren’t his memories to cherish. He’d been the one to leave yet why had I felt guilty for always pushing him away?
I couldn’t have stopped myself even if there had been a storm or earthquake. His presence was as annoying to me as electrifying.
He was right.
I was drenched. For him.
For the man I hated. For the man who’d left me. For the man who never looked back. For the man who never cared.
Something severed in the connection between us. I was sure Miller felt it in the way I straightened from the desk, my legs still shivering and my hands trembling as he turned on his feet and walked straight ahead to a room I hadn’t even noticed.
I gathered my wits. He’d touched me. This was the first time any man had ever touched me in the last six years. It was an embarrassing truth that I’d never, ever been attracted to a man after Ken to give him the time of my day.
I’d wondered, of course, how a man would touch me. Feel me. Fuck me. And I hated to admit that every fantasy ended with Ken on top of me. He was all I’d ever dreamt of. Even during nights when I’d slip my hand underneath my shorts, I would imagine his strong body and delicious voice rumbling as I cried myself to an orgasm.
So when he touched me today, my brain kind-of short-circuited. The first man that had ever touched me was Ken and the next time another man touched me, it was him again.
This was a goddamn mess and we kept going in circles around each other. I’d lost my mind as much as he had. That was why this happened. It wouldn’t happen again. He hated me. He’d told me as much. And that didn’t stop him from wanting me because if the bulge that had poked my stomach was anything to go by, he was more than just aroused. So if he wasn’t ashamed of wanting me, why should I be?
