“What are you thinking about?” he asks gently, lowering himself beside me on the bed, but he’s smart enough to keep a couple of feet between us.
All I can do is laugh and try to hold back tears, completely overwhelmed in a way that only Emmett can make me feel. “Where to even start,” I scoff. “But I’ve said it all before. I told you how I felt when you chased me down outside of the police station.”
He looks away with a soft and stern nod. I still have no way of knowing whether or not he’s still working with my father. He claims he had no choice the first time, and he could just as easily be stuck in the same spot now. But he also claimed he didn’t care about anything my father had to offer—everything that came along with his position as one of the last remaining Elites. He said all of it meant nothing without me.
I watch the edge of his face as he stares out my bedroom window, his eyes darkened by too many thoughts too like my own. I am once again left with a longing to go to him and trace my fingers along his jaw, drawing him to me for some kind of comfort. He used to insist that I belonged to him, and I’ve never understood how he could make me feel so afraid at times, yet still make me want to be his.
Always seemingly aware of what goes through my head, he never misses an opportunity to play on my momentary weakness. Right on cue, he turns back to me and reaches his hand across the bed, leaving it just a few inches away for me to take or leave. I was able to resist him before when he stood in the rain, pleading for another chance; I have to believe that I’m strong enough to do it again.
I roll away from his touch and refocus, straightening my hair and steadying my voice with a sharp breath. “So, what’s next?” I ask. “I told you I’d help you find Bernadette, and I will. We need a game plan.”
He sits back up on the edge of the bed, looking disappointed and tired. “Maybe I can look through her things,” he suggests, raking his hands through his hair. “I know she keeps a diary. Maybe there’s some hint of some kind in her room.”
“You don’t need me to do that,” I snap back. “Why didn’t you try that before dragging me into this?”
I worry that while his fears for his sister may be sincere, this is an all too convenient excuse to get to me. He’s side-stepping my pleas for him to leave me alone, to give me time and space, and instead roping me right back into the dangerous games of his world―a world he knows I want to stay away from.
“Because I need you, Ophelia,” he insists, looking up at me with pouting eyes. “It’s not just about what you can do to help…I need to be close to you. Having you around helps me keep my head straight.”
I laugh sarcastically and look away, shaking my head as my arms fold firmly over my chest. “Forgive me if that’s just a little hard for me to believe,” I sneer over my shoulder. “I’ve never known you to seem like you had your head on straight.”
“What about now?” He stands urgently. “We’ve been alone in this room for how long? I could have done a million things to you. What about when I had to hold you captive in my room? I could have let Trey and Vincent have their way with you, or done things to you myself if I was really such a bad guy. I did my best to protect you and keep us both safe.”
“Are you delusional?” I fire back, my voice growing too loud.
“Shhh…your mom!” he hisses at me, stepping closer as we both fight the urge to fall into each other’s arms.
“I didn’t feel protected when you held me down…when your father put his disgusting hands on me. Punched me. You tied me down and left me at his mercy,” I remind him, my voice cracking from the pain of the memories.
“Stop it,” he growls, turning his back to me. “I can’t think about those things.”
“Well, I certainly can,” I shoot back bitterly. “Some days it’s all I can think about. And if I have to live with those memories, then so do you. You don’t get to just pretend like none of it ever happened. You have to face it if you want to be around me.”
“I did all I knew to do at the time,” he murmurs quietly, his voice dripping with conflict and regret. “I’ve told you before…you don’t know what my father was like.” He trails off into silence, looking at the floor in complete silence. But then, suddenly, he shakes his head and tugs at his shirt as he turns back toward me, snapping into a different state of mind far from the memories of his monster of a father. “Let me show you who I really am, Ophelia.”
His eyes are heated as his warm fingers brush along my cheek. I am frozen under his touch, always needing and wanting more. He trails his index finger across the line of my jaw as I clench against his hard chest. I step up to my tiptoes and press my lips to his, lighting us both up with the heat of passion.
He murmurs something indistinct against my mouth as his hand winds through my hair, jerking my face upward, demanding that I be right where he wants me as I am left breathless and at his mercy. His lips come over mine in a deep kiss as his tongue opens my lips, sucking and nipping across my mouth in heated waves, growing more demanding and urgent. I tug him in closer, whimpering into his mouth and begging for more. He still kisses in the same confused way, always furiously switching between pulling me closer and pushing me away. Always punishing and brutal. I struggle to keep up and match the sweep of his tongue with my own. But it’s an intoxicating dance that I can never get enough of.
“That,” he blurts suddenly against my lips, with a groan of satisfaction.
“Hm?” I hum back.
“That’s what I was talking about earlier.” He grins. “The rush. Didn’t you miss it?”
“No,” I lie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He pulls me back in, eager to face the challenge. He begins kissing me urgently, with greed, pulling and tugging at me and sucking my breath away. I can’t help but whimper against the force of him as I feel myself surrendering.
“You still going to pretend you don’t feel it?” he pants, his forehead pressed against mine.
It’s too much. My chest tightens as I buckle under the overwhelming surge of it all. I push him away and retreat a few steps back. It’s surreal to be standing here with him in my room, feeling everything rushing back over me. I hate the way it makes me want to forget about everything from before, so that I can crash into him and revel in the way he makes my body feel. The primal urge outweighs the consequences I know he should face. He doesn’t deserve to have me again. I’ve already given him far too much just by letting him come here.
“You can try to run from it,” he teases, “but you know you want it as much as I do.”
The deep rasp of his sexy voice is killing me. It still excites me to be wanted so much by him. I’d convinced myself for so long that his attraction to me was just some fleeting curiosity, that I was just some fiery, unobtainable object that bruised his ego when I didn’t melt for him. But he’s still coming back for me, poking holes in my old theory.
“You don’t know anything about what I want,” I insist sincerely.
I am not as fucked up as Emmett. Yes, I want to give into our lust. I want the momentary thrill of having him inside of me again. It’s only happened once before, and it was the best sex of my life. Of course, I want it again. But I also want the things that go beyond the awkward coldness he showed me afterwards.
It may be dumb to think that any guy I meet in high school could develop into someone and something that lasts in the long-term, but I still crave a relationship that can lead to a real partnership. Someone who can be there by my side when my running career takes off, and someone who can settle down with me once it’s over. But Emmett isn’t thinking about any of those things. He only lives moment to moment, taking whatever pops up in front of him when he wants it. He is not a little house with a white picket fence.
“Tell me what you want,” he tries, moving forward again, his voice dangerously suggestive. “Tell me every…last…thing…you…want…” His words trail off as he kisses, bites, and sucks along my neck, sending chills down my spine.
He doesn’t even know how far off he is. What he’s asking for is not what is on my mind, but the more he moves his lips across my skin, I am beginning to forget everything else. I’m slipping, falling back beneath my physical yearning for him. I’m trying my best to resist, but he’s breaking me down—just like he knew he would.
“We should stop,” I beg, more as a reminder to myself than a real plea. “I don’t want to do this.”
“You don’t?” All at once, his hand moves between my legs and pushes just enough to prove me wrong. He can feel that I’m already wet and pulsing with need.
“Fine.” I bite my lip in defeat. “But just because I want it doesn’t mean we should.”
“You should have everything you want.” His voice cracks with tenderness.
I want to scream at him. What I want is for him to be a good person, but that’s something he can’t give me. Can he? I feel dizzy from how quickly he’s breaking me down and sucking me back in. My ability to push him away and run is quickly fading. I can’t resist him.