Hating You, Loving You (Inked Hearts 4)

"I'm not here because I'm drunk."

"Then why?"

"I want you. It's that simple."

"Bullshit."

I reach for some way to explain it without telling him. Find nothing. "I've been fucking myself to you for the last three weeks straight." My hands go to the bottom of my tank top. "Why does it have to be complicated?"

"Stay there." He moves around the corner. His footsteps pad the hallway as he moves into the bedroom.

The towel hits the floor.

A drawer opens. He changes into something. Moves into the main room in jeans, no shirt, black boxers poking out from the waist band.

"If you're trying to tell me you don't want to fuck me, it isn't working." I brush past him as I move into the main room. Take a seat on the powder blue couch. My eyes find his. They beg for kindness, affection, mercy.

He offers none. "You gonna tell me why you're really here?"

I swallow hard.

"That's what I thought."

"Are you going to tell me why you were so afraid of getting hurt seven years ago? Why you still can't do relationships?"

"All right." He looks down at me. "Truth for truth."

"Only if you go first." I pull my feet onto the cushion. Sit cross legged.

He nods fair. "It's not easy to explain."

"You can try."

"All right." His footsteps sink into the carpet as he moves into the kitchen. "But I'm too sober for this conversation."

"I want you sober."

He reaches for a high shelf. Wraps his hand around a bottle of whiskey. "Right back at you, sunshine." He fills a glass and slams half in one gulp.

"Fine, but I—"

"You can have water." He grabs another glass. Fills it with water. Brings it, and the bottle, to the coffee table.

His fingers brush mine as he hands the glass over.

He sits on the couch next to me. His knee against mine. His shoulder touching mine.

I take a greedy sip. Wet my parched throat. Devour the drink in three sips. I'm still thirsty, but I don't want more water. I want him.

His knee rubs mine as he turns to face me. "Who starts?"

"You."

"All right." He drops the glass on the coffee table. He pours a shot's worth of whiskey. "Fuck. I'm too old for this." He wraps his fingers around the glass, brings it to his lips, slams it.

My gaze stays fixed on those soft lips.

His tongue slides over them.