Rough Love (Tannen Boys 1)

Bruce’s thumb reaches up to brush the edge of my mouth, and I don’t stop the poutiness of my lower lip as it pops from my teeth to chase his touch.

The light moment’s gone in a poof, replaced by the heated thought of our bodies pressed against each other, even though the pad had been between us. I don’t mean to, but my attention drops to his crotch, remembering his earlier warning about his erection.

“I’m okay. Are you? That was a pretty hard hit.”

Fire. Dynamite. Nuclear fuckin’ bombs. I’m playing with them all at once, daring them to consume me, but I can’t stop, even as my mind screams at me to back away slowly and run the other way. As loud as my brain is, my body is louder, hungrier, needier, and its growls of desire are deep and hot. And undeniable.

He steps closer, and I can feel myself leaning in as he pulls me into his orbit. Sexy, big, growly man with eyes I want to fall into, swimming in their dark depths until I gasp for air. Suddenly, riding that horse sounds like something I could do. I’ve never been a real cowgirl, but I’m sure as hell that I could ride the fuck out of Bruce Tannen right now.

“You’re always a hard hit. To my body . . .”

Yessss. His words are vibrations against my skin, though his lips don’t touch me. I tilt my head, giving him better access to my neck, but he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, I can just feel the heat of his breath.

“To my mind . . .”

Mmmm.

“To my heart . . .”

Errrk. Record scratch on that one.

“What?” I ask in confusion. “I didn’t break your heart. You broke mine.” It’s a bitter accusation that reminds me why this is such a bad idea.

Bruce’s brows jump together and his face goes stony cold. “You said yourself that we have history. Don’t try to rewrite it now because you need dicking.”

Crass, crude motherfucker.

Wait, no . . . not that last one because I’m not playing into his game. He’s trying to distract me, throwing up walls and flashbangs to spin me around. I don’t play games . . . not anymore. So I call his bullshit right out, no holds barred as I step back to get some space between us.

“I don’t need dicking. If I wanted to get fucked, I could get fucked ten ways to Sunday by any number of guys on several different websites.” His jaw clenches, and I take that as acknowledgement that I’m right and keep diving deeper. “And I’m not rewriting shit. What happened, happened. It was a long time ago, and neither of us can change it now. Nor am I willing to hop on your guilt-trip train. It’s over. Done.”

With that, I turn to walk away, not giving a shit that my damp ponytail probably flicks him in the face. He deserves it after his little digs.

His rough hand wraps around my forearm, stopping me, and I instinctively jerk it out of his grip. “Don’t touch me.”

Bruce holds his hands up, fingers spread wide and showing me his palms. He’s acting like I’m a skittish animal that might go into a biting-foamy-mouth-rabid-attack mode any second. “What did you mean?”

“About what?” I bite. But not with my mouth, just my tone. Besides, I don’t have rabies or any other diseases. I know because I got tested after Jeremy.

Bruce speaks quietly. “You said I broke your heart, not the other way around. I remember that conversation, Allyson. You broke up with me.”

Sometimes, emotions and the way we express them get a little haywire in our brains. That’s why people laugh at funerals or cry happy tears. Like it’s all just so much to process that the little emotional characters at the helm just start pulling levers and flipping switches, and paradoxical emotions pour forth without sense.

That’s the only reason I can imagine for what happens next.

I laugh. And not some dainty, sweet bell-tinkling laughter. Oh, no, big belly laughs erupt from me like I just heard the best joke ever told. But the truth is, what Bruce just said isn’t a joke.

He’s looking at me like I’ve lost every marble I ever had, and maybe I have because I take the time to actually explain myself. My therapist would be proud. I am.

“I might’ve been the one to say the words ‘it’s over’, but we both know it was over long before that.” I emphasize the words, wanting him to hear them specifically. Because surely, he knows that I was well aware of what was happening here at home while I was away at school. We never discussed it then, but I knew.

I knew so much it cut me to the bone and destroyed me. I knew that things would never be the same between Bruce and me and that I’d never love like that again, innocent and naïve, giving my whole heart without reservation.