Page 74 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
A faint smile ghosts over his mouth. “Should I refill it?”
I shake my head. “No.” And I push the glass away from me, just in case. “First, let me apologize for showing up at your house unannounced in the middle of the night.”
“Tell me why you’re here. That’ll determine whether or not I’ll accept your apology.”
I stare at him, then huff out a dry chuckle.
“Thank you,” I softly say. “For today. You didn’t have to ...”Blindly defend me. Go toe to toe with my mother. Be you.“Well, you didn’t sign up for Monica Nelson today. Thank you for being kind and respectful when she wasn’t.”
“Is this your role? Has it always been?”
His voice doesn’t alter, but an intensity enters his ice-blue gaze, and suddenly I’m feeling like a black-and-white x-ray image. It borders on too much.
“What are you talking about?”
He gives me a look that can be described only as chiding. And it’s deserved. I’m not dense; I get his meaning. But do I want to? No.
“Peacemaker. The diplomat. In families, most of us assume roles, and I’m just wondering if that’s the one you chose or the one forced on you?”
Okay, so we’re going there. Bending my head, I close my eyes, pinching my nose. Maybe I should’ve had more of that wine. But no amount of alcohol can drown out the anxiety, the guilt, and theembarrassment that crawl beneath my skin like a rash. A rash I can’t scratch or cure.
A large hand cups the nape of my neck, squeezes it. And a quiet enters me like a soothing balm. It settles my mind long enough for the words that whirl in my head to pass my constricted throat. There’s resistance, as if I’m disloyal by sharing anything about my past, my family. But I’m tired of bearing this load on my shoulders by myself. Of being silenced by my own anger, fear, and shame.
“I had my first ulcer at fifteen. Stress. Because kids find the damnedest ways to hoard the blame for their parents’ issues and behavior—if I’d asked for lunch money the night before instead of in the morning, maybe Mom wouldn’t have screamed at Dad over cornflakes and sent Levi, Miriam, and me to the bus stop with their argument ringing in our ears. If I’d just gotten an A on that earth science test instead of a B plus, then maybe when Miriam’s friends showed up for her sleepover, they wouldn’t have had a ringside seat to our parents’ knock-down, drag-out fight. Miriam’s first and last sleepover.”
It doesn’t require a stretch of my imagination to feel the trembling of Miriam’s body or the dampness of her tears on my shirt as my sister cried in my arms after our parents humiliated her in front of her friends. And as a genius, Miriam had already felt different from other girls her age, so the sleepover had been a huge deal. And they’d ruined it for her.
“It became my responsibility to try and keep the peace as much as possible in my house. To try and alleviate the tension or avoid a blowup. That was my job. And even at thirty, I haven’t resigned from it. I’m beginning to believe it’s a lifelong assignment.” I laugh, and it’s harsh, the bitterness and self-deprecation scratching my throat. “God, I sound so pathetic and weak.”
“Weak? There’s nothing pathetic or weak about you, Zora.” He squeezes my neck again, and it isn’t to offer comfort but to gain my attention. I tip my head back, staring into his face. “I don’t want to hear those words come out of your mouth again. Not pertaining to you. Ittakes strength to be the one not to break. The one who stands in the gap for others so they can breathe or gather their own strength before fending for themselves. It takes strength to be quiet when you want to rage. So no, Zora, you are not weak. Not pathetic. You might very well be one of the strongest people I know.”
I blink. Blink again. Battling the sting of tears. I duck my head, but he doesn’t allow it. Clasping my chin, he tilts it up, granting me no choice but to meet those brilliant eyes. Offering me no shield against what’s in mine.
“Cyrus,” I whisper. Pause. Nerves beat at me like I’m a punching bag, and I clutch the edge of the island behind me for support. This is going to hurt. Seeing his disappointment, his anger, his ... rejection is going to rip a hole in my chest. But it must be done before we go any further. “About today. What my mother said—”
He shakes his head once. Hard. Cutting me off.
“Is this about your job? Your business?”
“Y-yes,” I stammer. “I need to—”
“No,” he interrupts again, voice smooth steel. “You don’t need to tell me anything. And I don’t want to hear it or know it.”
I lift my hand to his that still pinches my chin and, twisting my head, remove it.
“Cyrus, stop. Please, listen ...”
“I said no.” He steps back from me, his mouth flattening into a grim line, eyes gleaming chips of ice. “And you listen to me. I don’t want to know because this information isn’t freely given. You’re only telling me because of what your mother insinuated today.”
“She’s not the only reason,” I murmur.
“I don’t believe you. And since I’ll never be sure you weren’t pressured or shamed into it, I don’t want to know. Because it comes down to this, Zora. I don’t give a fuck. You could be a preschool teacher by day and a kindly madam by night, and I would still want to be buried balls deep inside you tonight and have lunch with you tomorrow.” Helunges forward, reclaiming the space he placed between us. His mouth hovers a mere inch above mine, his breath a hot blast of a caress. “I. Don’t. Give a. Fuck. I just want to fuck you.” He cants his hips, and there’s no possible way I can contain the whimper that climbs my throat like a ladder and escapes me as his cock drags over my clit. “Now tell me that’s why you came here, and put us both out of our misery.”
He does it again, pumps his hips, gives me a preview of what I can have tonight if I’m greedy enough.
If I’m willing to acquiesce to his demand to let my confession go and see this—this temporary fake-relationship friends-with-benefits arrangement—through to its natural conclusion.
I can make him listen. If I say stop, he will. But do I want him to stop? No. The dirty, sinful truth is Iamgreedy enough. I want him so bad—have from the first time I stared down at his picture on a phone—that I’ll grasp on to the flimsiest of excuses to have him. I’ll let him convince me to let it go. To take this slice of time, these three months, and hoard it for myself. And at the end, walk away as he promised. As we agreed. No strings, no harm.
