He chuckled near my ear. “The longest time.”
“We fight.”
“We flirt.” The bass shook the door at my back.
“I can’t stand you.”
“It’s funny how you still think that.” His lips pressed against my jaw.
“We want nothing to do with each other,” and I absolutely did not groan.
“The list of the things I want would astound you.” He pressed up against me, and he was hard.
I refused to look at him. “This is how you do it, isn’t it?” The sound that poured from me when he started grinding against me was filthy and I thought I would vibrate out of my skin.
“Do what?” he asked as he pushed harder.
“This is how you get them. Your fucks. You press them against walls and breathe shit in their ears and they just do whatever the hell you want.”
“No, I don’t do this.” He knocked my feet apart gently, spreading my legs, and pressed his thigh up against my dick. I was still looking away from him, my ear flat against the door, hands curled into fists at my sides. “I don’t do this,” he said. And he pushed into me, teeth scraping along my neck, a whine pouring from my throat. His hips rolled and I was fucking riding his goddamn thigh and the friction was good, so damn good and—
“Bullshit,” I panted. “Even I’ve seen it. Seen you with a different fucking guy, doing—”
“You don’t get it, do you? I want—”
“I don’t fucking care what you want,” I snarl
ed at him, turning to look at him. My nose hit his, and I felt the blatant scratch of barely there stubble on his chin. His pupils were dilated, and I knew he was turned on, and I knew I was turned on, and this could go one of two ways. I could close the minute gap between us and taste him, lick into his mouth, and just fucking take like I’d wanted to for years. Or I could remember my place, remember this wasn’t real, remember that not an hour ago, Darren had himself some fucking hipster twink pressed up against his side like it was old times, like these past weeks that had somehow meant the world to me meant absolutely nothing to him.
He pressed harder and his mouth drifted to mine.
I said, “Stop.”
He stilled. Whatever he was, he wouldn’t take something that wasn’t being offered. I knew that about him. Regardless of whatever else he was, he wasn’t that.
And I owed this to him, maybe. But more so, I owed it to myself.
I said, “Years ago, you made me feel like I was something beautiful. You made me think I was something special. And then you turned around minutes later and treated me like trash, like I was beneath you. I thought you were different, that you weren’t some meathead jock, the same ones that had been cruel. The ones that had called me a faggot and a queer and had laughed when they pushed me around. You didn’t hit me. You didn’t touch me. But you fucking cut me with your goddamn disdain, with your disgust at my hope that someone like me could ever stand a chance with someone like you. And you and your friends had a nice little laugh about it right in my face. So I turned and walked away. You fucking asshole.”
He had gone rigid against me, his breath ragged, shoulders tensed and drawn up.
“I’m doing this,” I said, “because I need you to save the bar. Nothing else. You don’t deserve anything more from me after the way you treated me. Because no one should ever be treated like they’re nothing when everyone is something.”
He took a step back.
I felt like I could finally breathe again.
He didn’t look at me, gaze resolutely downward.
It hurt to finally say this all out loud.
Especially to him.
After all that we’d gone through these past weeks, it fucking sucked. But I was nothing if not protective of my heart. And I couldn’t trust him to hold on to it. He was attracted to me. That much was obvious. And that was fine, because maybe I’d proven my point. It was the rest I worried about. And it was easier to push him away rather than pull him close.
When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry. I never meant—”
“That’s good,” I said. “And thank you for saying so. You should probably leave. It’s late, and I have to get home.”